


Sweller (Second Movement)

by PaxVobis



Series: Three Movements [2]
Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: A Brief History Of Seth And Amber, Aggression, Amber POV, Amber is a Cold Bitch, Asian-American Character, Australia, Bisexual Female Character, Bisexual Male Character, Blackmail, Blow Jobs, Champagne, Cheating, Consensual Infidelity, Couch Cuddles, Cuckolding, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dark Comedy, Dom/sub Undertones, Electrocution, Erotica, F/M, Face Slapping, Fights, Grinding, Groping, Hate Sex, High Heels, Homophobic Language, Hospital Sex, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Kissing, Large Breasts, Love/Hate, M/M, Making Out, Marriage Proposal, Minor Violence, Multi, My anaconda don't, Needles, Now I Ain't Saying She A Gold Digger, Open Marriage, Oral Sex, Orders, POV Bisexual Character, POV First Person, Police Brutality, Pre-Threesome, Pseudonyms, Recreational Drug Use, Revenge Sex, Rough Sex, Sequel, Sexually Transmitted Diseases, So yeah, Social Media, Tasers, Temper Tantrums, Threesome - F/M/M, Thriller, Unplanned Pregnancy, Vaginal Fingering, Voyeurism, Wine, Worship, everyone is bi, selective mute
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-04
Updated: 2018-11-23
Packaged: 2019-01-29 11:55:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 27,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12630528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaxVobis/pseuds/PaxVobis
Summary: Seth asked if any of your girlfriends were bisexual.  You shrugged.  If they were... his fingers walked up your arm, wheedling – maybe you could have a threesome.  Had you noticed, y’know, how your sex life had been kinda nothing lately yeah well maybe that’d spice it up since the 50 Shades bullshit was getting you nowhere right – you looked sideways at him.  Seth recoiled, petrified.  Darling, baby, light of my fuckin’ life... but he already knew you were going to say no.  As if you’d let him lay a finger on your girls.But the thing about Seth, for all his tragedy – he still had the ability to surprise you.  He asked, “What if, y’know, I go first?”  You looked at him, waiting for elaboration.  “Y’know... get ol’ blind Mag over ‘ere... uh... do that first.  Y’know what I’m sayin’?  Will you at least, y’know... consider it?”Belly Cutter 2: NOT3.Chapter 4: ... It's Your Brand New Leopard Skin Pillbox Hat. R18+.





	1. Giving Bad People Good Ideas

They called it a Devil's Threesome - two men and a woman - and though your husband was undoubtedly sent from below, you had no idea how you managed to end up here.  All the circumstances that had lead up to this, sitting in the back of the DETH1 State Vehicle by his side and glancing out the tinted window at the highway as it took you through towards the airport, were fucked up, but then there had not been a moment since you married the ginger fuckwit that hadn't been. 

One day you're working in a nail salon in Milwaukee and trying to complete your Aesthetician Technical Diploma, and all you know of this complete scumbag ex-con is considerable infamy for preying on one or two younger women known to your friends and his now-status dating your very nice boyfriend's ex, Beatrice, oh they're still friends, oh he's cleaned up his act now, oh sure Bea, and like, the very next thing you knew you were fucking him in the back of your boyfriend's car outside a party, a barbecue, middle of the fucking day, and he was choking you against the car seat and it was the best fuck you'd had in your entire life.  And you didn't know how you got there or how it had happened, what it was  _about him_ , about _Seth_ , even his name like a toad hissing, but there was something -  _inexplicably_ something - so strong that you were dragging at his fly before you'd even gotten across the lawn.

Or maybe you'd just hated your boyfriend.  And you'd definitely hated Beatrice.  And you'd hated the way they looked at each other, the way she tempted fate with that cunt,  _fuck_ , you just had so much hate in you and you _had_  to fuck the little skeeze, barely taller than you, with his wiry stupid moustache and groping, bruising hands.  And it resolved that he'd slipped off the condom while you were fucking and sneered over it even as he slammed the door on your panting, blanched face.  You should have expected that kind of bullshit from such a haughty shitstain.  But you didn't.  And, early days yet with your boyfriend, you'd been neglecting to take your pill.

You should have gone to the pharmacist and got the day-after, but you couldn't find a fucking second to go stand in a fucking line.  Not with your boyfriend over your shoulder, having suspected something, smelt it on you, and not with the one-sided argument that followed, the sneer curling at your dark lips.  Your relationship lasted just over a month more while you waited for the test to be certain and then considered your next move, long enough to run into Seth every fucking time you went out, somehow, always smirking at you across the café, down the bar, from Beatrice's side like his entire existence was a smirk, wrapped in a sweater vest, wrapped in the thick miasma of his scum personality.  You had never felt so much hate for a person, never wanted to fucking destroy someone as much as you wanted to destroy Seth's life.  Never wanted anything as much as you wanted to grind his balls into the dirt.

In the short time you'd known him, you had never said a word to Seth.  He had yapped a thousand, he ran his mouth like a fucking motor spewing smoke and oil, a waste of inertia in this fucked up world.  When he had asked, weren’t you dating Ethan, you just shook your head.  And when he left you panting against the upholstery, feeling it slide down your leg, the discarded condom on the car floor, all you could do was gape at him as he laughed and crossed the lawn again.  Five weeks after you'd fucked, after you'd had some time to think about how you were going to obliterate his hopes and dreams, you had found two to say to him.

At that mutual friend’s birthday, a thirtieth.  It was late, the party winding down.  You had dumped your boyfriend that night – yes, you were the one who cut that relationship’s throat, you had no mercy, no pity, told him straight up that he had no place in your life any longer with as few words as possible in the dark lounge room, your words almost lost beneath the loud music. 

He went home alone.  You felt possessed by your hate, by all the men who had fucked you over, as though they had coalesced in that ginger cunt, _Seth_ , and you were going to do this all alone – keep this fucking crime of his, this mistake, use the wits it would inherit and the money the courts could force from his hand and your own brute strength to raise the child into a Damien, a Carrie, a child who would tear the heavens down around him.  You were Rosemary, impregnated by the Devil; you were talking in tongues, your soul in death throes, bending over backwards to harm him.  Your nails sharp, your hand itching to gouge into his cheek.  You were going to destroy him.

When Beatrice left alone, kissing you on one cheek and then the other, you knew it was time.  You found him out by the pool, Bud Lite in one hand, cell in the other, posing as a frat boy with a sweater tied around his shoulders, polo shirt, salmon shorts and loafers, sneering at you under the fairy lights that twinkled above.  It was a new moon, the witching hour, and the air burned around you as you walked towards him in your pink party frock and white chunk pumps. 

“Huh, look who’s fuckin’ come crawlin’ back,” he jeered you, fearless.  He was drunk.  Stank of cologne. “Nyeh, fuckin', obsessed with me, you fuckin', huh!  Women.  You know what I mean?  You fuck 'em once and you can't get fuckin' rid of them.”

You stared straight into his eyes from under your immaculate brow, burning.

“What is it?  Fuckin', you want a fuckin' round two?” asked Seth, raising his beer at you, his lip curling, and you fucking slapped him.  The sound of it cracked out over the still pool like a gunshot, and his hurt whine as he staggered and clutched his cheek was the sweetest, purest sound you had ever heard.

Your eyes met, his mouth gaping like a fish skipped from its bowl.  He could see it, could feel it, what he had created.  The planets pulling you together.  And the look of horror that eclipsed his face, like he hadn't even imagined that could happen, a consequence to his actions made actual, real flesh and blood, gave you such satisfaction that your heart sang to see it.

But you didn't expect what came next, which was him blinking and gaping like a frog was wiggling up his throat, and then he said, "I'm gon' be a dad?"

A dad.  Not a father.  Not  _hhhholy fuck bitch get rid of it holy fucking shit_.  A  _dad_.  You could see it tearing within him, knowing as an ex-pimp how to relieve a woman of the condition and unable to deal with that if it was his own flesh.  He said, "I thought ya –” and you just stared through him.   “You sure it ain't, fuckin’... whatsisname, Ethan’s?" he asked uselessly, and you nodded.  You _were_ sure.  And then he made a sound in the back of his throat and said: "Uh!  Auh.  I can’t fuckin’ – I just got of parole!  Ohhh, Mom’s gonna kill me.  We gotta – we gotta... auh, get - get... fuckin'... married?  _Auh_."

And then he passed black out, falling sideways, stiff, straight into the pool.

You watched him hit the water, the crowd that had gathered around you of the last dregs of the party, drawn by the raw energy of the drama, breaking around you to dive in and pull him out.  You just stared, your body rooted to the ground, possessed, your purse clutched in the claws of one hand, the palm of your other, a weapon, stinging. 

There, at Donald's birthday party, at the fucking poolside, the cerulean blue rippling lit by the pool light as Seth surfaced, spluttering, laughing hysterically, held up by two Samaritan friends all of them soaked through in their lavish party clothes, the fairy lights in the elms and across the terracotta roof - it would have been perfect.  But holy fucking shit, you hadn't prepared for this.  You hadn't prepared to say no.

"Motherfuckin'... fuck it!  Marry me, then, bitch?" he yelled up at you, flailing to stay above water, his hair flattened wet to his scalp.  Looking so desperate. 

You curled your lip at him and then just shrugged.

And that was it.  The planets aligned, pulled you together, united you on the precipice of revenge, and you fucked him again in the back of his father’s car, this time with your nails dug into his soft throat.  Beatrice was history, his last chance of happiness as obliterated as his phone in the pool water, and you texted her skulls and knives and crying-laughing faces in your mirth.  The ring followed, definitely from a pawn shop, adorning your finger like a gleaming medal as you closed your claws on his pitiful life. 

You met his mother, Molly, a cow as vile as he was but twice as stupid, her eyes gleaming with pride as her son introduced his future wife, mother of his motherfuckin’ child ma.  You didn’t even talk to her, you just took the nudes of Beatrice you had emailed yourself off his phone the night before after he blacked out after sex and uploaded them to a revenge porn site.  And then you uploaded Ethan’s dick pics to Friendface.  The father, Calvert, was more respectable and apparently where his wits came from, what there was of them – a stoic and a gentleman, very paternal, watching you protectively from the moment Seth introduced you as pregnant.

And Seth was protective.  He rushed around you, unfazed by your silence; he worshipped you, he bought you shoes and purses and dresses and planned a lavish wedding and where he was getting the money you didn’t know.  You wore only the grossest colours, the highest tank tops riding over your stomach, the shortest skirts and tried to frighten him off with your trashiest makeup, but it only attached him further, like you were _exactly_ the kind of girl this fucked up kid dug.  When you were showing, he opened doors for you, drove your car, punched this one guy who dared catcall you in the Walmart parking lot and got beaten to a bloody, puffy pulp for his trouble, but the fight he put up was impressive – dirty, fingernails, knees, teeth.  A violence you could respect.

Every moment you were away he was blowing up your phone, so you just blocked him, and he didn’t even notice, he was _that_ besotted.  He held you close in his single bed in his parents’ attic and wept about how much he loved you.  You took a video of your face using Shimchat with the cute puppy filter and just recorded his sappy sweet words, sharing them with all your fashionista followers, a gloating smile tugging at your lips, and for the rest of the night your phone was flooded with _slay girl!  so cute!!! I luv u 2!! omg_.

Seth swore to get sober, swore to get on the straight and narrow, and you stood over him with your hand on your hip as he deleted every teenage chick from his mobile phone, and then every woman’s name except for his mother’s.  When he got up to _Pickles_ , you were glaring through his soul, _delete the bitch,_ until he explained that was his brother.  Y’know, Pickles, Pickles the Drummer, from Dethklok.  And you suddenly realised where he thought he was getting the money from, where those random followers were coming from. 

You had never thought, in all this – this agency, this vengeful, hateful thing you were doing – that it could actually pay off.  But he held your hands and promised you.  It was about family.  Even Pickles knew that was the most important thing, and soon you’d be set for life.  You looked down at him, wide eyed, and he told you that you had saved his life.  Nothing felt real.  And when you leaked this to the news, that Pickles the Drummer’s brother was having a baby and it was you, it was _you_ , you were going to have the child of Dethklok or well, the niece or nephew anyway, close enough, your follower count went through the fucking roof.

At your own wedding you stood there stage left and watched as Pickles the Drummer of Dethklok alighted the stage and punched the living shit out of your new husband, blood spraying across the stage as the sirens wheeled in the distance, and you shimchatted it to your millions of followers.  On your wedding night, you sat by his hospital bed with the curtains drawn, heavily pregnant, and smiled malevolently over him as you gave him the saddest handjob of his life under the blankets. 

The news of his employment by Dethklok Australia came the next day, and as soon as your baby was born (on American soil, for citizenship purposes, Seth still in stitches and casts and an eyepatch), you were gone.  A new life, binging on Dethklok’s money.  Well, you’d never liked metal – after all that time pimping and dealing and squirming around in the gutters, finally Seth got his, and so too did you.  Penthouse, beauty treatments, fashion lines, limousines, armoured pink Lamborghini, private police.  Personal trainers and running on the pristine beaches (though the baby fat had stuck around – well, your mother always said you could use a little more meat on your bones). Queen of Australia, millions of eyes on your every move broadcasted from the Dethfone in your hand.  An endless holiday.

The kid was gorgeous too, such a cutie, you couldn’t have asked for a better behaved baby, big hazel eyes, curious, vocal, happy and healthy, ten fingers, ten toes.  Crazy, you would have expected Seth’s spawn to cry a lot more but the kid was an angel, quiet as a mouse – took after his mom.  Your new friends worshipped you or else they were obliterated.  Seth paced around your penthouse like a trapped animal.  Ten months of fidelity (well... almost – being unable to walk for one of them helped) were destroying him.  You came to an agreement, in fewer words than that – he wanted to see other people, but you would not agree unless you could to.  If he wanted to see other women, then you wanted to see other men.  He did not like that.  Okay then.  You wanted to hook up with Amy and Kate.  He did like that.  That sounded fine.  Great.  Amazing.  _Hot_.  Okay, well.  You’d hook up with any woman you liked.  And he could fuck any man he wanted.  Deal.

 _Wait_ , said Seth, not understanding what had just happened, and you texted Kate and Amy a string of peaches and droplets and tongues.  It was _on_.

In no time you had what amounted to a harem of girlfriends, and Seth was alone.  He made up for it by jacking off to camgirls and trying his damnedest to drive the business into the ground as the city burned around him.  If he was suicidal you couldn’t tell, there were enough attempts on his life on a daily basis without him trying too.  He never even told you that you were in debt, never seemed fussed about it himself, and when he suddenly announced he was travelling back to America to get fucked up the ass for a cool few million while you were just lying there on the couch with the baby, it made you blink.  Sure.  But you’d had your shimchat recording, so... it just made good content, when it came down to it.  And when you received a photo of him stoned and tied to a sink, it barely made your eyelid flutter.  Always knew he was into some kinky shit. You were glad he was living his best life.

What really blew your mind, of course, was when he came back on the Monday jetlagged, bedraggled and covered in bruises.  Totally silent about what had happened, but when you checked your accounts suddenly there was four million dollars in there.  And that was your _man._   A martyr.  You hadn’t realised the extent of the bruises until you went down on him later, saw them all over his throat, his ribs, the inside of his thighs, nail scratch marks on his white skin.  You didn’t know what he’d done except it _must_ have been blackmail, fucked someone and threatened to expose them on their own homophobia. 

Four million dollars.  God, you were so proud, so gleeful.  You could never have imagined how much better it was going to get, when a stranger began texting you, a benevolent stranger, you almost blocked him with every message but he kept you interested – somehow.  Promised he knew things about Seth.  The icing on the cake was a video emailed to you, middle of the day, Seth sitting across from you on an icepack pitying himself.  A video of  your husband sucking a stranger’s dick.  You couldn’t hold it back, the laughter, and seeing him stare at you across the room you turned the phone around to show him.  And the horror on his face was sweeter than the nectar of heaven.  He was destroyed.  You had it all.  And he only had himself to thank.

Then you were sitting in bed with Seth, browsing your phone.  He hadn’t dared to cheat on you in months, a deep depression claiming him, keeping him in the house most days, some worse than others.  His sex drive was through the floor, always up late on the internet or drinking, watching TV, dropping weird, defensive comments about how he wasn’t gay, or maybe he was, he didn’t fucking know, and he didn’t want to talk about it neither. 

This night, Seth suddenly started talking about his boyfriend, out of the fucking blue.  And he was his boyfriend, you’d worked that out a while ago, worked out who he was talking to online at all hours of the night.  You tuned in for it, of more interest to you than NASCAR betting pool winnings or pointless white rappers or pornstars which, yes, he usually runs your ear off about.  On the one hand you never expected him to _ever_ be comfortable enough with the experience to talk about the guy who transparently fucked him up the ass, on the other hand with the gulf in your side of the conversation it was inevitable that he'd get there eventually.     

He asked about your girlfriends.  Filled in the space around him, the space you left empty, by running his mouth constantly.  He got angry at you, complaining about how between you and Mag he couldn’t get a fucking break, could he?  Had you been talking to “Mag”?  You subtly changed the stranger’s name in your phone from _Friend_ to _Mag_ and continued to listen.  God, you two were fucking conspiring against him.  Were you fucking him, huh, Amber?  Were you?  You shot him a glare at this, enough to convince him he was talking nonsense and he stared helplessly at his legs in front of him in the bed.  Okay.  All right.  He was sorry about that.  He was just... confused.

Seth had been talking to Mag, although it more resembled a dance of blocking and unblocking one another.  He’d been having weird dreams about him.    You looked at your phone instead, emailing your agent about fluff, nothing, a safety net below Seth’s catastrophic business endeavours.  In Seth’s dreams, he was walking with Mag, and the guy’s blind eye was glowing white through the darkness of the empty Florida streets.  A blind eye... you crooked a perfect eyebrow, wondering just what kind of creature he had managed to dredge up from the seven hells to suck his dick. 

In his dream, Seth was Seth.  Or he was Pickles.  Or he was Seth again.  He really didn’t know.  Mag would lead him down into a basement bar, and then the darkness just swallowed him, suffocated him, and he woke up in a cold sweat with a hard on.  You had noticed this.  The conversation shifted suddenly, Seth too vulnerable to stand himself.  Suddenly: did you know Mag had stabbed Nathan, once, that giant guy his brother was fucking in the band, he found this out off the internet.  Mag was _so_ gay, just.  Totally.  Seth had never met anyone proper gay.  Really it was natural to be attracted to other men, really, everyone was bisexual, really... he had a bigger dick than Seth too.  You already knew this, but wondered where he was going with it.  Clearly, he’d made an impression.

Seth asked if any of your girlfriends were bisexual.  You shrugged.  If they were... his fingers walked up your arm, wheedling – maybe you could have a threesome.  Had you noticed, y’know, how your sex life had been kinda nothing lately yeah well maybe that’d spice it up since the 50 Shades bullshit was getting you nowhere right – you looked sideways at him.  Seth recoiled, petrified.  Darling, baby, light of my fuckin’ life... but he already knew you were going to say no.  As if you’d let him lay a finger on your girls.  But the thing about Seth, for all his tragedy – he still had the ability to surprise you.  He asked, “What if, y’know, I go first?”  You looked at him, waiting for elaboration.  “Y’know... get ol’ blind Mag over ‘ere... uh... do that first.  Y’know what I’m sayin’?  Will you at least, y’know... consider it?”

And because you were curious to see this, your horrible, homophobic husband, a man who wouldn’t even eat your pussy because that was too _gay_ , put a dick in his mouth _in the flesh_ , you conceded.  You would consider it.  But first it had to happen.

Sitting in the gloomy red of the DETH1 Armoured State Vehicle texting your agent and reapplying your vinyl lip gloss between messages, you can hear the Australian Federal Police radio on the bodyguard in the seat opposite you chattering with the movements of the rest of the force assigned to you tonight.  Earlier, as you left Sydney main for the airport, you definitely heard a bullet ping off the car's protective shell but now you are relatively safe, and there is some talk about that - your movements, or rather Seth's, coded as  _Invicta_ across the radio. 

Through an idle, flirty conversation with one of the AFP guards, filling your spaces for you, you learned that although superficially this just means  _unconquerable_  in Latin, something Seth's ego is bloated by, this word refers specifically to an insidious variety of fire ant, a pest in Australia introduced from America.  The fire ants are full of parasites and can collapse the ground beneath houses or paddocks, swallowing up livestock whole, and their bites alone can cause anaphylactic shock.  Billions are spent every year by the Australian government just to contain them.  So really quite a lot in common with your husband, but they called you _the queen_ , so...

From the chatter on the radio, you determined that Seth had sent the Bombardier for this man of his.  Touched down nearly an hour ago now – the royal couple fashionably late with the baby in capable hands – and their guest had been held in a private room by airport security since then.  On the drive, one of the police had looked up from his radio to ask Seth if they should _remove the water_ and he had chewed on his cheek, thought about it, and then told them, “Naw, keep him goin’ til we get there, y’know, I’m still mad at that old fag over fuckin’ Sunday.”

You didn’t know what had happened on Sunday, but apparently it was worth waterboarding your boyfriend over.  You pulled into the airport, the car stopped with its escorts surrounding, police in black uniforms standing outside your windows.  Seth was anxious – his depression had lifted somewhat, like a tablecloth pulled from under a setting, in the last few days of organising this, throwing himself at your feet again as he conspired with this other man, this attempted murderer, and now he sat beside you in his white Al Pachino suit and aviators, jiggling his leg and staring into space.  His cologne was strong, a scent you’d picked for him, one that made you horny.  For you, a grey, figure-hugging bodymod dress with a high collar – no need to be indecent about it.  Your hair down.  In the reflection on the black screens of the D1’s communications system, you look more stunning and vicious than ever in your life.

You texted your agent, and Kate, and browsed shimchat.  Seth looked past you out of the tinted windows, watching the dark figures move around the car.  “It’s gon be okay, right?” he asked nervously, looking to you for reassurance.  “Y’ain’t mad, are ya, babe?”

You glance at him, and then go back to your phone.  You aren’t mad.  Seth has never been able to work out when you are or aren’t, though, and gives a sigh as he looks at his sneakers.  “Yeah...”

This is the right place to look, because a moment later the car doors are pulled open again and a man is thrown bodily into the bottom of the car, falling at your feet with a thump that shakes the vehicle.  You both stare in shock as the police get in behind him and the door is slammed.  The guy’s not going anywhere, his hands are fastened behind his back with a plastic tie, chucked face-down on the floor with a hood over his head.  Like the police, he wears all black – denim jacket matched with stove pipe jeans, lighter than the rest, tight on his body ( _nice butt_ , you can’t help but notice as you pull your heels up away from him), cuban heel boots curled to the side where the police have crammed him in with you.  Dark curls peek from under the hood, and importantly, he is fucking _massive._   You have never seen a man so tall. 

The policeman opposite you is reading him his rights in a strong Sydney accent.

“For the purposes of the Australian New Zoning Act 2010 property of Dethklok Inc (including Dethklok Australia) is considered part of Mordland with the powers of this state bestowed upon its servants, up to and including the use of deadly force to compel civil obedience from those on property.”

Seth, beside you, is beaming down greedily at the man as he curls in on himself defensively.  You suppose he’s sighted that ass too, though the idea of Seth trying to get up on this guy has all the comedy of a Chihuahua mounting a Great Dane.  Your lip rises in a snarl, your heels lifted out of thrashing range.

“They got tasers,” Seth says over the policeman, prodding the prone man with the toe of his foot.  “Y’hear me, man, they got motherfuckin’ tasers.  You better be behavin’, or they’ll tase ya.”

“As with all visitors to Mordland under internal code 24.2.5AA (Personal Property) we have liberated you of any personal effects that may cause harm to Dethklok and their employees, including identification papers, cell phone, and anything that could be remotely construed as a weapon.  These have been logged in our internal systems and will be screened by the President of Dethklok Australia, and will be returned to you when appropriate.”

On cue, one of the AFP hands Seth a snap-sealed evidence bag with various items inside it – a passport, wallet, Nokia phone, and a wicked dagger in a leather sheath.  Seth plucks the passport out of this, resting his sneaker on the man’s back as he looks over his sunglasses and examines it, and you eyeball him for his attention.  He did not tell you the guy was a fucking colossus; this changes _everything_.  The last time you saw a man this big he was eclipsing the sun at your wedding, standing over Seth’s brother and smirking at the chaos around him.  This man isn’t structured like him, none of the fat or muscle, just a felled tower of gristle but the wide shoulders, the massive hands straining against the bonds – he could _finish_ Seth if he wanted.  He could _eat_ Seth if he wanted.  What the _fuck_ has he been playing with?

From your feet comes a quiet breath, “Seth?” muffled by the hood.  But Seth isn’t listening, to him or to you.

 “This ain’t your motherfucking name,” he observes, looking over the passport at the man, and the guy gives a cringe as Seth’s sneaker works into his rib painfully.

“Seth?  This ain’t funny...”

“This ain’t your name, bro!  Who the hell is this?”  Seth waves the passport at him, though of course he can’t see shit through the black hood.  “Mag-doom Checky-kan?  Fuckin’, Russian shit?  You ain’t Russian, you’re ‘Murican!”

“Oh!” says the man from the floor, “I’m sorry, if I’d known there’d be this much _literal torture_ involved in our ménage à trois then I would have passed on the holiday, man!”

“It ain’t your name!”

“It _is_ my name you fucking moron!  And it ain’t Russian, what the _fuck!_ ”

Seth looks up at the AFP opposite you, pulling his own feet off of the man, and says, “He’s lyin’, juice him,” which is probably the gayest thing you have _ever_ heard him say, and this man has looked you in the eyes before and declared his intention to fuck this man up the ass.  The officer springs forward with the taser and jams it into the back of the man’s neck, the crackling circuit making contact with skin at the collar of his jacket, and his body immediately goes rigid, hands locked white and tense as the shock bolts through him.  You look at Seth and widen your eyes as only a wife can, demanding an answer.

“He’s lyin’!  It’s a fake fuckin’ name,” says Seth, and the man falls limp as the officer removes his weapon, checks he’s still alive and then returns to his seat.  Your guest, your _prisoner_ , breathes heavily from the floor.

“His name is Mag,” explains your husband, and you look over him at the passport.  _Mgrdoum_ , it says, _Chekijian_.  Even though you know full well Seth can’t pronounce your Hmong name either (it is your numberplate on the lambo), his ignorance shocks you.  You curl your eyebrow at him.  Mgrdoum is _almost_ Mag.  You can empathise. 

Seth takes another look at the passport.  “It fuckin’, ain’t this!” he protests, and then leans back, pushing his feet into Mgrdoum’s side as he stretches out.  “Whatever, huh.  I’m keepin’ this ‘till we’re done.  Y’hear me, fag?”  He drives his heel into the man’s side to a savage snarl.

“Oh, man, the moment I get my hands on that bitch of yours, Seth... I’m gonna stick my cock so far down her throat she’ll feel me blow on her _kidneys_ \-- ”

You look down at him, think about it, and then slowly bring the points of your heels down to poke into his thigh, one then the other.  The man falls limper than after the taser, his shoulders raising in defeat.

“She’s right there, huh.”

“Yeeeeeeeeeeeeep!  Motherfucker!”

“Hi, honey.  Uhh.  Shame... that we had to meet like this.”  You watch him as he defers, wilting on the floor under your heels.  Guy might be a colossus but at least he knows his place.  You see Seth rise from his seat, readying his foot to bring straight down on his boyfriend’s head.

“Shhh!  Fucker.  Ya don’t get to talk to my fuckin’ wife til I say you can, shitheel,” he sneers, and then follows through with the blow before the man can respond.  His body shakes under your feet with the blow, then falls still, giving up for the moment.  “You get down there and sleep off the fuckin’ interrogation room, huh?  And we gonna be home in fuckin’ no time.”

Seth winks at you, beaming as if he’s felled some ferocious dragon rather than just kicked his fuckbuddy in the head, and then drops back into his seat.  “Hit the road, motherfuckers,” says Seth, and pulls fingerguns as the car starts up again.  You pull up Shimchat on your phone.  There is no way this is going to end up in less than chaos, he’s got to know that, and yet he’s determined to follow through into his personal disaster.  That’s the Seth you know and adore.

God, you’re so ready.


	2. Spikes

It's a long drive back to the centre of the city where Dethklok Australia's HQ, the Dethtower, stands like a threatening black spire, and where you reside.  Beneath your feet, your prisoner takes Seth's advice, and lies completely placid as though he has in fact gone to sleep, his chest rising and falling through the black denim jacket the only evidence that he is still alive.  Beside you, Seth deflects one of the AFP officers' questions, and then sits in silence and holds your hand.  His small, warm palm in your hand is reassuring, in its strange way.  You never stopped hating him for what he did.  You never will.  But you have come to some appreciation for what he is, the disaster that he is.  The selfishness which subsides with your control.

In your other hand, your gel nails tap against your phone screen with every touch.  There is not a lot going on on Shimchat at this time of the evening - the timezones really fuck with you here.  America is out for the count.  Beijing and Singapore are still picking out dresses for the night, and Bangkok is just getting started on afternoon drinks.  All of Mordland are still asleep since the band don't wake up for another four hours at least.  This guy, Mag, comes from Los Angeles, and on his internal time you figure that makes it about... one in the morning.  If he is actually asleep down there... you couldn't hold it against him, you suppose.  Perhaps it's better that he naps before you guys get down to business...

Thinking of this.  You are still not impressed by Seth omitting how fucking big he is, but you  _are_  impressed by, like, the sheer size of him.  Even judging him curled up in the bottom of the car, Seth's sneaker on his face, you think he must be at least six foot.  You wonder if what they say about big men is true.  That is... of course... they have a certain gravity.  Mm hmm.

Driving through one of the inner suburbs, a bullet pings off the car's armoured shell and causes both of you to look up, hand in hand, Seth's grip tightening panicked on yours, as the vehicle slows and the cops outside yell, but the man at your feet doesn't flinch until the next three that lodge in the bullet-proof Perspex by Seth's face in mad, frosted spirals.  Another yell and the cops are firing back at them.  They can do that now, granted provocation; you can feel your prisoner's body held tense, roused from his fatigue, but the gunfight is soon over, perpetrators brought in.  The motorcade moves again.

Around the bullet impacts, you begin to recognise the city again.  You are home.  When you stop outside the lobby doors of the tower, your guard has increased tenfold and there is just a wall, a tunnel, of hoods and police helmets as the cops hurry you inside the building, hand in hand with your husband.  Your guest is pulled out viciously and dropped on his feet, hooded and bound, expected to right himself instantly and jog through the glass doors as the police barrel him in.  Instead you see him trip out of the corner of your eye, and he is half-dragged in and thrown to the polished marble floor.

The AFP officers instantly point their guns at him.  "Stand up!” one of them barks and Mag just lies there, catching his breath.

“I said, _stand up!_ ”

The guns click.  Mag kicks a foot pathetically, the toe of his pointed shoe squeaking on the marble.  “Okay!  God damn it!  You tied my hands, and I can't -- " he yelps, and the officers all look at each other before their captain swoops forward, grabbing the masked man by his bound wrists and the back of his collar, the taser touching the back of his neck.

From there he carefully pulls him, shaking, up, first to his knees and then to his feet, barking, "Stand up.  Stand up!" at him as he hauls him upright.  Standing, Mag trembles unsteady a moment, his stance wide, and then the police all look at Seth and you and Seth indicates he's ready to go with a dismissive gesture.  He is enraptured by the sight in front of him, of this man in bonds and hood manhandled by the police, and delicately he squeezes your hand and releases it, prowling down the foyer to lead the way to the elevators beyond.  The foyer marble is black, and against it and the red sunset streaming through the large windows, Seth is just a blot of peach angles - his white suit washed out to pink, his auburn hair, the red shirt.  He looks like a prince.  The armoured police begin to follow him.

"We're going," instructs the captain, and leads their prisoner blindly after Seth, his shoulders stooped as they hide his form from spectators - the staff in the lobby, eyes through the windows.  He staggers at first, but quickly finds the pace, and as you come up behind him, shrouded by the crowd of police and curious, you can see he has picked up the gait of the officers' boots from the sound of their footfalls on the marble.  Likewise, he has noticed you - turns his head in the direction of the sound of your heels on the polished stone, following you without sight. 

You realise that Seth, in his sneakers and soft-footed on the marble, must be nigh-invisible to Mag, and feeling for him in some odd way, you catch up with him and place your hand on his crooked arm, bound behind his back.  The officer on his other side, ushering him with taser and a tight grip on his other arm, gives you a dirty look from behind his black visor, but says nothing as you all stand around the elevator, waiting to file in.

This close to him and with the guy on his feet, you have a better appreciation for just how massive he is.  Even in your four-inch fuck me heels (purchased specifically for the occasion) he towers over you.  It's hard to tell from the angle by how much - maybe a foot, even, easily head and shoulders above you.  Once you are all in the elevator, crowded in and surrounded by the police, Seth clasping your other hand as he glances around the mirrored walls, checks out the three of you together, you can tell better by your reflection.  You look bizarre - this humongous man in bondage and two tiny glamour pusses hanging off him.  Even Seth is shorter than you tonight with the heels, something he claims to hate but secretly loves - or else, you know, he wouldn't buy you the six inch heels for your six month anniversary.

With Seth clutching your hand, you can't check your phone.  What a fucking drag.  It dangles from your fingers on Mag's arm, and together you stand silently, you hanging off him and Mag held tight in the grasp of the officers around you.  Seth, unable to stay still for even a second, runs his mouth with the officers to assuage his nervousness, repeating their orders to quiet,  _Yes, sir_ s of agreement.

 _Yeah, and you_   _got everything on fuckin' lockdown, y'know, I mean fuckin' secure okay?  Huh.  This is private shit.  REAL private shit.  I don't wanna hear nothin' 'bout this, not a fuckin' peep, you got me?_

_Yes, sir._

_Cool, right, you gotta fuckin' suppress that stuff, you feel me?  Or I'll fuckin', rain down on your asses, y’hear?_

You feel Mag give a soft, faintly amused chuff at Seth's prattling and look up at him, studying him closely.  You wonder what he looks like beneath the hood - one-eyed, or so claims Seth, and you wonder if it is gone completely - if it's a glass eye.  You caught a snatch of his passport photo but it looked to be many years ago, and now you extrapolate, imagine a biker-type, with a handsome but weathered face, tanned skin, high peaked hairline with flowing curls.  A gold earring, piercing grey-green eyes - or eye, anyway.  You know that you're setting yourself up for disappointment, but you try your best to feel him out, a faceless stranger, within your sexuality, to fit him into what you desire, your shadowed eyes flicking up and down him almost with suspicion in your shared reflection.  In many ways, that fantasy - a stranger, an unknown man, tall and dark and criminal - is more erotic than anything he could really be.

The elevator reaches the top floor of the lobby and you all spill out onto the bridge like a hive of black ants, marching Mag onwards with your hand still possessively on his arm and Seth in the lead, yapping orders at the police from afar.   _Do whatever you like to him, huh, just don't leave a mark, like physical, y'know what I'm sayin'?_   You roll your eyes.  You remember the state of Seth's thighs after their last encounter.  You're certain marks on  _Mag_  isn't going to be an issue.

The bridge takes you past the atrium, a gigantic water feature that dominates the lobby, and you wish the hood was off just so your new friend could witness it.  The water feature is a triumph of bargaining between Seth and Head Office, several storeys tall with its base in the lobby and each subsequent storey opening onto the feature.  These levels are open to Dethklok employees and eventually - once the levels are outfitted with stores - to the public, and it was this feature that is behind Offdensen's approval of the expenditure in the first place.  By turning the base of the previously corporate-only tower into a public space, they have been able to get sanction from the city council for additional levels both at the top and bottom of the tower, violating other city regulations.  Now the Dethtower looms above the city in lavish beauty like a black glass obelisk.  You do not know what is at the top, and you do not want to.

The feature itself was Seth's idea, a tribute to you, and that is why you desire Mag's one good eye laid upon it.  To witness your true importance to this man.  The feature is a massive sculpture based on Bernini's  _The Rape of Proserpina_ , white marble bodies on black stone with the water cascading down unimaginably, impossibly yielding, stone cruel skin.  It was not Seth’s idea but rather a metal sculptor’s, and you enjoy its completed majesty.  You can see Mag’s head tilted towards it, the sound of the water, and you want to snatch the hood from his face, make him look upon it.  But the police hurry you on, keen to be rid of you for at least as long as it takes to indulge your primal instincts and more than happy to surrender an American to your appetites if it gives them a moment’s peace.

They file you through a low-profile security door into a narrow staircase, claustrophobic and smelling of the fresh concrete dust, and you must release Mag to walk in front of him with your husband as Seth snatches your wrist, towing you up the stairs.  At the top of the stairs, the police disable a metal security door for you, and you’re through into the security clearance area.  It’s a boring room – like an office or an airport, with doors off from the main, gated area that you know lead to private cells.  There’s a mix here of police and klokateers, and they drag Mag across the floor as he trips on his feet and barely resists the rough treatment, staggering his weight, planting his heels only to be pulled off them again.

“Fuck!” you hear from behind the hood, and they push him face-first against the wall, the officers ramming his shoulders against the white painted bricks of the designated body search area.

“Stand still!  Don’t move!  Spread your legs!” barks an officer, and they pat him down through his clothes as Mag stiffens against the wall.  By you, Seth is talking sternly to the captain over a desk, inspecting the man’s passport beside a computer monitor.

“Y’see, I fuckin’ knew it!  He’s a fraud!” squeaks Seth, crossing his arms as the captain runs the passport through a light, checking its authenticity.  He flicks his head to Mag, being held against the wall and scanned for bomb residue, and snaps at him: “You’re a fuckin’ fraud, this ain’t your name!”

“God, you are so...” comes the snarl, and Seth crosses to stand by you and enjoy the show.

“I read your fuckin’ court records!  This ain’t your motherfuckin’ name!”

This freezes your prisoner, the police standing back from him save for two holding him to the wall, and they bustle about the room preparing their next step.

Seth sniffs haughtily, smirking.  “Eyyyhhh, yeah, I fuckin’ checked ‘em.  Caught out there,” he says, waving his pointed finger at Mag though he can’t possibly see it.  “Motherfucker.  Aw, did you think I thought it was really Hammersmith?  I mean, who the hell calls himself fuckin’, Hammersmith!  For real, you think I’m a fuckin’ idiot, bitch?  Huh.  I know it all, I ain’t gettin’ my shit trashed twice.”

Eventually, Mag speaks up, more subdued this time around: “That’s my father’s name.  I changed it in ’01.  Sick of all the attention.  Chekijian is my mother’s name.”  He leans his weight heavily on the wall, and you take a photo with your phone.  “Leave _Border Security_ to the experts, Seth.”   

The officers surround him, armed with tasers and handcuffs, and Seth prowls around the group like a fucking supervillain, coiled, eyeing him suspiciously.  You snap a quick photo of him from the distance and message it directly to Kate and Amy, but not before drawing a circle around the outline of Seth’s power boner showing through his white trousers and a couple of laugh-crying faces.

When you look up again, the officers are whipping the hood off your prisoner’s head, a cascade of messy dark curls spilling over his shoulders.  Man, you almost clap.  That’s some beautiful fucking hair right there.  Boy must look like Jesus.

But his face is still pushed to the wall so there’s nothing much to look at yet.  They’re attempting to cut the zip ties off his wrists.  “I’m going to release your wrists.  Please raise your hands and place them immediately in the yellow circles,” orders the captain.  The two yellow circles are just below Mag’s head height, and you are sure you catch a flash of pointed nose as he turns his head to find them.

The plastic snaps.  The hands go up.  Everyone sighs with relief in unison as he places them in the circles, leaning on the wall.  You can hear his laugh bouncing off the wall.  “Jesus.  Really getting the V.I.P. treatment, aren’t I?” he muses, and Seth sneers at him from his left, waiting expectantly for the next step.

“Mr Chekijian, we are going to place you in restraints, your cooperation is appreciated,” says the captain, another officer approaching with the item in question – a heavy black leather belt.  Seth has not discussed this with you.

“Sure,” says Mag, and you tap your foot and look at Seth pointedly as you watch them sweep Mag’s hair aside and bunch it so that the belt can be strapped around his throat.  Not a belt.  A collar.  “Oh, real cute,” you hear Mag murmur as they place it around his neck and pull it tight on him.  “You guys go _hard_ on your scenes, huh?”

“Huh?” asks Seth, crooking an eyebrow, and Mag’s hair is dropped to spill over his shoulders again, shifted as he looks at your husband.

“This is a Fetlife thing.  Right?  My safe word is ‘Garmonbozia’.”  He chokes it out through his own chuckles.  Quickly, Mag flicks his head to the police, his neck stiff in the high leather collar.  You can see his pointed nose, one dark eye, the white curls that streak through his long hair.  “How about you guys pat me down again, that was _fun_.  Just to be on the safe side.  Just for luck.  I liked that, get real up on the thighs...”  And he’s laughing openly at them.  Leaning on his hands against the wall.

The police are not laughing.  But you are smirking too, behind your phone.

Seth, likewise, is amused but just barely.  He huffs around a smirk, touching his fingers to his lips.  Something about the way he looks now, with his Raybans pushed up on his button nose and his ridiculous mobster suit worn with the kind of coldness it demands, is very attractive to you.  With Seth, this comes in bursts; it’s rare, an inexplicable charisma that comes over him often at his cruellest, his most calculated and devious, not his basic, petty crook stupidity and wheedling.  It is this that draws you to him, for reasons that you are sure are vile and self-hating and not worth close examination.  That and the glee of seeing him suffer, vanquishing that cruelty again.

It had escaped you, the potential in this situation to see this side of Seth flex.  In fact it had never even occurred to you that his relationship – if it can be called that, his _connection_ – with another man could be based on anything other than Seth’s own submission.  You mean, you’ve seen him suck this guy’s dick.  You’ve seen this guy’s dick.  You’ve seen your husband’s utter humiliation, his forceful outing, at the hands of this man.  And yet you never considered that that could be out of retaliation.  It is weird... very much so.  You and your girlfriends, you build everything on chardonnay and rompers and singing along to Rhianna with your hairbrushes.  None of this power play shit.

“It ain’t that,” says Seth shortly.  His stance is comedically wider than usual, as if he is bracing himself against his lover’s femininity, _admitting_ to enjoying something.  “You fucked me up good last time, bro.  And then you got the guts to tell me I let my guard down.  Huh.  Well, I ain’t the kinda fuckin’ fool to fall for that shit twice.  Ain’t lettin’ ya outta my sight this time.”

Magnus hums, hanging his head where he stands.  You can see that he is trying to steal a look at you between following Seth over his shoulder, his one eye just missing you.  “Right, and how’re you gonna do that?” he asks with a sneer, and there is a flurry of expectant looks – from the captain to Seth, from Seth to you, the captain to you, and you waiting to be told what the hell is going on.

Seth flips up his palm to you.  “Stand back, sweetie.  This could get dangerous,” he coos, and you stare at him before backing away in your heels, guided by police officers who wave you aside and surround you, standing two before you and around you, far enough apart that you can see the scene.  You put your hand on your hip.  This is not very funny.

Mag is glancing around, watching the officers moving around him with his big hair rolling over his shoulders.  The captain hands something small and black to your husband, a little black box which he palms and holds up for Mag to see.  There are a lot of little black boxes in your life these days, once little black books, powder compacts... now phones and radios and tech. 

“This,” announces Seth, smirking at his prisoner, “Is the _latest_ in offender control technology, fuckin’, cuttin’ edge, y’know what I mean?  The Cerberus Control Brace, straight from Dethklok HQ – so you can thank your old pal Chuckie for this one, huh.”

You hear Mag give a quiet scoff from the wall, eyeing Seth over his left shoulder.

“Ain’t she a beauty,” croons Seth, regarding the unit in his hand and weighing it in his palm, “Turns bad boys into choir boys... y’know what I mean?  Heh.  Go on, make a move on me.  Let me have it.  I got the remote, you’re cool, come on.”

All of a sudden Seth is backing away, beckoning to Mag, the police exchanging glances uncertainly.  Mag watches him, uncertain of this turn.

“C’mon!” says Seth, and grins wide, “Give it to me.  Come for me.  Dare ya.”

Slowly, Mag removes his hands from the circles on the wall.  No one moves for him.  Standing straight now he must easily be over six foot, towering over the gathered crowd.  He rolls his shoulders and then turns to Seth, watching his maddening smirk with trepidation.  His hand runs across the neck of the collar, exploring it as he waits.

“I’m givin’ ya an unmissable chance here, man!  Anything!  Hit me where it hurts!” goads Seth one final time, standing away from Mag as he flicks his gaze to you.  The first thing you think is, oh, god, he’s an ugly fucker, first getting a good look at his face, that dead eye and pasty olive white skin pale with seclusion.  The second thing you think is, holy _shit!_ , because he lunges for you, his sharp-nailed right hand coming for you, making to grab you, as he crosses the floor quickly.  He must know he will never lay a finger on you, but he does it anyway.  Enough to make you step back an inch, your heels clacking on the floor. 

Seth squeals, “ _Fuck_ , naw!” as soon as he lunges and fumbles with the device.  Before Mag has even gotten a second step, Seth has pushed the button and there comes a sharp beep from his neck.  Another.  One every second as he hesitates, gathers himself, and comes for you again, slower, moving with his weight, his hand outstretched towards you as the police square up between you.  It feels like it’s in slow motion, pre-programmed.  Six shrill tones.  And then he suddenly drops, falling with a smack to the concrete at the feet of the police in front of you.

You look down at him.  The jerking movement is reminiscent of the taser earlier, the limb-locking possum reflex.  Totally incapacitated.  Above him, your husband gloats.  “God damn,” he says, grinning like a fiend down at Mag lying tense on the floor, “I love ya, Chuck.”  And he kisses the unit in his hand, a controller, before nudging the collar at the nape of Mag’s neck with the toe of his sneaker.  “Ya got two electrodes right here that touch the skin.  Shoot fuckin’ high-voltage, low amp zaps into ya to fuck you right up.  Up to _fifty-thousand volts_ – is that right, Captain?”

He looks up at the captain, who echoes, “That’s correct, sir.”

“Straight up.  Wow.  I mean, wow!”  Seth widens his eyes with glee, lording it over the man as he pushes himself up onto his hands and knees, trembling with the shock.  “Turn a tiger into a fuckin’ pussy, man!  It’s got zoning.  It’s got a _sedative administration system_.  Multi-function, I mean, wow!  You’re my fuckin’ bitch, Magnus!  Your ass is mine!”

Mag – _Magnus_ – sits slowly back on his feet, his fingers curling beneath the collar just barely as he catches his breath, his hair spilt over his face.  He cannot pull it from his neck even with his fingers stuck beneath.  “Shit,” he breathes, looking no more than inconvenienced, “What happened to safe, sane and consensual, man?  Jesus fuck...”

“Yuh huh, tell that to the Xanax babe,” says Seth derisively.  There is something in this exchange you have not followed, but despite what they seem to be telling you – that this is a forceful thing, that Magnus is a prisoner and has not consented to this, that further, Seth did not consent to something, was drugged into it – neither of them appear particularly bothered by the horrors they’re hinting at. 

“You wanted to take that Xanax.  Don’t deal me out in front of the lady here,” grumbles Magnus, and he slowly gets to his feet, one at a time, towering over you and casting a careful glance your way before he turns his attention to Seth again.  “It’s okay, I get it, man.  I wouldn’t trust me either.  Knifes and anal ain’t any way to spend a first date.”

Seth just blows a raspberry of disgust, folding his arms.  “Weren’t no date,” he says, and then speaks directly to you: “It weren’t no date, babe.  We ain’t datin’.”  You stare back at him, hand on your hip, because he totally just called this man _babe_ like... two seconds ago. Did he not even notice himself do it?  Jesus, what have you married?

“I love you too, Seth,” croons Magnus, smirking as two of the officers pull his hands behind him again and cuff them, and Seth ignores him.  He puts his hand out to you, and his face has this vulnerability in it that makes you just want to reach out and crush it.  Instead, you take his hand and step out from the protection of the cops.

“This’ll keep you under control,” he says to Magnus, waving the remote and then pocketing it.  “Like I said, it’s got, eh... zonin’, bullshit, meanin’ if ya bolt you’re down, zap, you feel me?  You lay a finger on my woman, you’re straight down.” 

Magnus is just smiling, muscled into the cuffs.  You just catch his look at you and mumbled, _thought that was the point but, well, whatever..._ before Seth tugs you away. 

“C’mon, babe.” 

You follow him, glancing over your shoulder at your third party as he looms behind you, the cops showing him in your wake.  _Hey, so, I had an overnight bag, in the airport,_ he’s saying to them, but they ignore him with the perfect silence of a militarised police force.  Sufficiently satisfied with Seth’s safety, or satisfied with his satisfaction and secretly hoping his hookup will garrotte him in the night, they guide him behind you through another steep staircase, sealed security doors, another residential level – empty, just for show, all gold and plush carpet, houseplants lining the corridor.  You are all shepherded into a huge, bronze-doored elevator, carpeted inside, and the police leave you to die or fuck or both or whatever. They could not care less what you do to yourselves.

The elevator is vast and mirrored, Seth hitting the penthouse button and then just staring at the door as it rises through the levels.  His deliberately slow breathing and glare could be taken as rage, but you know better that he is only anxious.  His brother is just the same on television, going pale and defensive and then lashing out at reporters, putting his hand over a camera lens before he chucks it to the ground to smash.  You hold Seth’s hand loosely and scan the mirrors for Magnus’ reflection, standing behind you with his hands cuffed, silent and obedient.

And he’s straight up checking out your ass in Seth’s absence.  He looks up immediately, caught out, smiling sheepishly at you in your reflection.  You fight to do no more but smirk, and Seth sees your movement and looks sideways at you.  “Babe?” he asks, and you turn your head to him and give him a questioning look as if nothing has happened at all.  He returns it, worry glancing his face. 

“This, uh, like... it’s okay, right?” he says to fill the space, and you nod in reply and squeeze his hand reassuringly.  Seth smiles at you, leans in to kiss your cheek.  “I swear I gonna make it... heaven for you, babe.  It’s gonna be heaven.”

In the mirror, Magnus rolls his eyes.  Funny that the dead one still moves.  You think about that dick and damn, Sethy, it sure is.  Seeing your asshole husband choke on it is just gonna be the cherry on top.  Heaven _with perks_.  Damn.  _Damn._   You are such a fucking ho.

You examine your nails.  They look fantastic, this matte powder pink with French tips and a diamante on the middle fingers.  _You_ look fantastic.  Magnus also looks fantastic in an uggo kind of way, he’s clearly tried, washed and nice clothes and cologne and all, and you know he has a big dick so basically he could look like that bug eyed guy in _Reservoir Dogs_ and you’d still be there for it.  Seth has never looked more like a literal rat than cowering here in the elevator all points and anxiety in his white suit.  He looks like he’s about to vomit, so that’s hilarious.

What if he vomits on Magnus?  Oh, _girl_.  You’ve _got_ to get that on video.

The elevator ride is long.  Magnus leans back against the mirror, looking down the floor numbers on the wall.  “Penthouse, huh,” he grunts, raising his eyebrows, and Seth shrugs, nestled up close to you.

“Yeah, well.  Dethklok takes care of us or whatever, y’know what I mean.  I been campaigning for a renovation on the east wing with the kid and all but Chuck’s such a fuckin’ tightwad he won’t budge.  For a kid!  I mean, how low can ya stoop?  Keepin’ a mother from her kid.  Nursery’s a whole level down, squashed in with the spa and all that shit, it’s fuckin’, bullshit, huh.”  Seth indicates to the number below the lit penthouse, and Magnus cranes to look.

“Yeah, I see.  That’s a bummer,” he mumbles.  As he scans the numbers, his gaze lingers on those at the bottom of the list, greyed out and beside a large black panel.  “What’s, uh... going on there?” he asks, curiously, and you feel his hip nudge yours as he leans around Seth to run his eyes over the buttons.  God, the cheek.

“Oh, those?” Seth is suitably distracted, looks down at the buttons.  “Oh, huh.  We ain’t allowed down there.  That’s, ehhhh... y’know.  Company business or whatever, I don’t give a shit.  Don’t think anyone goes down there ‘cept when our King and Ruler Chuck decrees.  It won’t even work, look.”

Seth presses his outspread fingers to the panel and mashes the buttons beside it, but nothing happens.  “See.  Huh.”

“Doesn’t it bother you, having whole floors kept secret from you in your own home?” asks Magnus, and you notice he has leaned on Seth’s shoulder where he cranes over him.  Seth is stiff with nerves, punching the buttons one last futile time.

“Errrrrr, I try not to think about it, y’know... I mean, we got secrets too.  You’re a secret, gotta... bribe the police and whatever just so you could come in, just so my brother don't freak out or whatever, so.  So yeah, whatever, ehh.”

“Mm hmm.”  Magnus pulls away, leaning his shoulders back against the mirror again, and you can feel the shiver Seth suffers through the hand you hold.  Almost impulsively you pull him to you, and though he pretends not to fold to your affection, giving you a light push away, his hand tightens on yours.  If you were alone, you know he’d curl right into you.  Stupid boy.

“I mean, what could it be, anyway, eh?  A fuckin’, tank full of aliens or shit, I mean, Area 51 Down Under, right!  Probably just fuckin’... fake visas or drugs or something,” muses Seth, and you kiss him on the cheek as he winces away from you – but lets you plant it anyway.  “I got plenty of those without Chuck’s help.  Y’know.  Champagne and cocaine.  We’re fuckin’ tight, y’know what I mean.”

“Right.  Looking forward to it.”  Magnus squares his shoulders and hides a smile.  He is easy to read, for someone Seth is so bewildered by.  You wonder why that is, and straighten Seth’s suit for him.  “Just go easy on the electrocution, or else I might walk out of here with a full head of greys. Or man, on a stretcher. I ain't a young guy anymore. I got ten years of fucking speed under my belt in the 90s, I don't wanna stress my ticker at this point, buddy.”

"Okay, okay.  I swear I won't fuck you 'round with it, man.  Pinkie promise."  Seth holds out his finger demonstratively.  "It's just in case, y'know.  Y'know..."

You smile at Magnus in the mirror as Seth wrings your hand in his own, and Magnus is smiling back at you.  The elevator dings as it reaches the top floor.  “Well, here goes nothin’,” says Seth, his voice wobbling with anxiety, and you press up against his side, winding your arms around his as the doors open.  Magnus presses against his back, craning over him for a look.  And you’re here.


	3. You Might Think He Loves You for Your Money But I Know What He Really Loves You For

“Aw, so... welcome to my crib.”

As you step into your apartment, Seth leading the way with his clammy grip on your hand, the presence at your shoulders hangs back.  Magnus is standing stock still in his bonds as you throw a look back at him, and Seth has to dart forward to slap the elevator door button again before it shuts on him, grabbing the man by the front of his shirt and tugging him into the room after you.

It’s funny, actually.  The old goat may as well have gone fully blind by just looking at the apartment, Seth dragging him through the dim and plush foyer into the lounge proper and smirking at him as he leans, aghast, against the archway.  Eventually the quietest breath manages to squeeze from him as you’re strutting into the lounge hand in hand with your darling husband: “Aw, man, no... you _don’t_ live here...”

“Small fry, bro, fuckin’ small fry,” sneers Seth, lifting his glasses onto his head as he leads you into the beautiful big white lounge.  “You should see my brother’s digs, huh.  Shit’s insane.”

Magnus says nothing to this, stepping into the room behind you and gazing around in wonder.  It feels good to be home, in conditioned air, on thick carpets and among beautiful things, works of art, the far wall just ceiling to floor windows looking out over the city lighting up for the evening, the red tongue of the sun slipping over the horizon and into the harbour.

“Get us a lil’, uhh, something to drink, honey,” purrs Seth to you as you come up to him to straighten his jacket.  Ego is a good cure for nausea, it seems, and though usually you’d resent the delegation and just wait for him to get his own fucking drink, this time you just tug on his lapels and then cross to the bar.  There’s something about the way this stranger looks at you when you’re fussing over Seth, when Seth is fussing over you, that is exciting, dangerous, jealous, and you just want to bait that possessive creature out, let it savage you.

The bar is set into the wall at the back of the room, near another archway to the practically unused kitchen, and when you slide behind it the lights set into the ceiling above it illuminate with a soft glow, lighting up the racks of aged wine and shelves of spirits behind you.  You see Magnus turn to follow you with his gaze in the ornate engraved mirror built into the back wall as you step onto the tiles and turn neatly on your toe, spreading your hands over the black granite counter and leaning forward – you know this makes your breasts fall forward in your dress, and this move is calculated as you meet his awed look with an expectant smirk of your own.

“Chuck us two platties, babe, on the rocks,” says Seth as he crosses to Magnus, pointing to you, and you dutifully pull two chilled Bud Light Platinums out of the fridge beneath the bar, and delight in the look of horror on Magnus’ face before Seth retracts the order: “Actually – make that Jacks!  Yeah.  Give us Jacks, babe.  Huh.”

Magnus wrinkles his nose as Seth rests his hand on his arm, frowning at you.  “You got any real bourbon?” you hear him mutter, but you have a bigger problem, and you bring it to Seth’s attention by placing the empty ice bucket on the counter beside the beer with a flourish and a clank as it hits the marble.

The men ignore you to argue about bourbon until Magnus strides around Seth to the lounge, cursing at him, “Whatever, champagne, I don’t give a shit.  What’s this, a fuckin’ spread?”  He’s noticed the coffee table, which indeed has a _spread_ – whatever snacks Seth could think of, since you didn’t help him any, which – being a Wisconsinite – pretty much comes down to cheese platters.  Magnus inspects them unhappily, leaning over the table, his hands folded in the cuffs behind his back.

“Man, fucking yoopers,” he mumbles, and glances over his shoulder at Seth as he snatches up one of the beers anyway, nearly raises it to his mouth, and then skids it over to you with an angry, anxious look so that you can catch it and uncap it for him.  “Anything here dairy free?” asks Magnus, pointing to the table with his elbow, and Seth looks up at him with the bottle lip in his mouth.

“Huh?  The Doritos?” he tries, and Magnus sniffs haughtily.

“Looks like Cool Ranch.”  He looks over the spread again, and you note that he has noticed the locked box at the end of the table and eyes it around the snacks.  “Even the candy, man?”

“Cool Ranch ain’t cheese,” points out Seth around a mouthful of beer, and you come out from behind the bar to approach Magnus and point to one of the dark chocolate truffles in a foiled box of the same.

“Mm, no dice, man, believe me.  I’m _very_ lactose intolerant,” mumbles Magnus, and looks up at you with a smirk as you point the chocolate out to him.  “Y’know, I was hoping you’d say that.”

He straightens, towering over you as he still smiles down at you.  But like Tantalus and the apple, with his hands behind his back Magnus can’t help himself to any of the snacks and he drops down on the couch behind him and sprawls, regarding the spread and you with pleading eyes.  You are _not_ going to feed him, you’ve only just met the bastard.  Instead you put your hand on your hip until he drops his gaze poutily to the spread again, and nudges the table with his boot.

“Is that crack,” he asks, looking at the mirror among the cheese platters with lines racked up on it, “Really?”  It is not – it’s ecstasy and pure cocaine, and you know that because you watched Seth dish it up with his credit card earlier.

But Seth just says, “Nope, huh,” and leaves it at that, leaning against the couch arm to drink his beer and size up his captive from a distance.  You check your phone rather than indulge them - the girls on your shimchat are in awe at the size of him.  Magnus lifts an eyebrow.

“Mm, looks like crack.  And this?”  This time he gestures with his shoulder to the box, and Seth smiles cattishly at him.

“That’s a surprise.”

“Vibrators, okay,” says Magnus matter-of-factly, and Seth frowns ugly at him.

“No, not _just_ fuckin’, vibrators!”  Seth strides past you to the box, flinging it open with the open locks rattling against the sides - but before Magnus can get a look inside, he snaps it shut again, standing over him and mouthing the bottle lip thoughtfully.  It’s really only since the blowjob incident that you’ve started to notice the extent of Seth’s oral fixation.  He is looking Magnus up and down, and from behind your phone, you can recognise that as lust.  Cunning as well.  He is determined to keep the upper hand tonight.

“Those handcuffs look mighty uncomfortable, huh,” remarks Seth pointedly, and Magnus doesn’t break his unamused stare, held from the moment the box snapped shut again.

“You think,” he drawls, and Seth smirks at him.

“I bet you’d like to get outta those puppies, huh.  With the cops gone and all.”  Seth continues smiling and mouthing his beer bottle until Magnus grunts at him again.

“There’s a catch, huh.  Okay, hit me.”  Magnus drops his shoulders and Seth smirks nastily against the bottle, holding it close.

“We got… they’re fingerprint activated, y’know… we can just open them, it’s fuckin’, it’s sick, huh.  So yeah, I guess I _could_ open it for you, if you do me a lil’ favour -- ” he prattles, until Magnus interrupts him drolly:

“If you want me to suck your dick, man, I’m down for it, you  know you can just get it out, right, you don’t have to ask.  You know that, right?  I mean,” he shrugged stiffly in the cuffs, and kicked out a long leg to hook on the edge of the coffee table with his cuban heel, “That is, y’know, why we are gathered here today, ladies and gentlemen, dames and dickheads…”

You smile at him from behind your husband, from behind your phone.  He is a charming motherfucker, isn’t he?  Although you suspect that’s what he wants you to think.

Seth grunts to himself, his breath whistling in the bottle.  “Huh.  You’re really - huh,” he muses, and then waves a hand at Magnus, indicating he should lean forward so that Seth can unlock his cuffs, “It’s nothin’.  I just forgot how fuckin’, faggy you were in real life, y’know, chuh!  All the more reason!  I just gotta get ya to do this lil’ test, it’s a lil’, STI, bullshit, y’know, see if you got AIDS or the clap or shit.”

Magnus eyes him quizzically as Seth reaches over and presses his fingers to the correct place on the handcuff, two small dips in the steel with a black detector set underneath.  They duly snap open, and Seth spins them playfully on his hand as he nods to you to open the box.  “Seriously?  You got a lab onsite or something?  Those tests take weeks.  I am really gonna need my bag if you’re gonna keep me here for that long -- ” says Magnus, and then he shuts up because you’ve opened the box.

This box is your secret box, yours and Seth’s, a secure and otherwise unassuming black and bare steel security storage box with a combination lock built into it - presently set open.  Magnus is correct, it does have vibrators in it - your favourites, among other items like silk ropes and cuffs, lube and inhalants.  Magnus eyeballs it all with his one good eye and whistles under his breath.  It’s satisfying to you, that he appreciates the investment that goes into a collection like this.

He looks up at you in quiet awe, with his big brown eye and his weird, murky eye, like a disc of pearly grey floating in a brown pool, and then he finishes in a subdued voice, “ -- my medication’s in it.  You know I was joking about the, uh, bondage shit, before.  But you ain’t playing around, are you?”

You are not, and smile placidly at him.

“Don’t worry ‘bout it,” Seth tells him, rummaging in the box before you as Magnus eyes the objects he withdraws and places aside on the table, keenly noting the weird contrast between cheese platters and black vinyl, his freed hands resting in his lap.  “You need meds, I’ll get ya meds, y’know.  I mean, I know what you take anyway, hah!  That’s not a threat, I’m not a fuckin’, bad guy or anything.”

“Uh huh,” murmurs Magnus, and he reaches out to snag a ball gag from the glass table, stretching its leather straps between his fingers curiously.  Seth’s sunglasses fall off the top of his bent head onto the glass table with a clatter, and he snatches them up, closes them, puts them aside before resuming his search.

“Won’t take all that shit anyhow.  Dethklok tech.  You know, they shag so many nasty fuckin’ sluts they gotta have a way to trim down the fuckin’ pile in the three fuckin’ hours it takes for them to fart out some of that motherfuckin’ crap they call music, huh.  I mean, you’ve seen how fuckin’, prolific that Swedish douchebag is, he’s sprayed his DNA over half the fuckin’, global, female population, y’know what I’m sayin’?”

Magnus hums in acknowledgement, privately delighted by Seth’s foul words.  You have realised this man is not a fan, but perhaps you underestimated the extent to which he detests Dethklok, by the pleasured look he has on his face in hearing that.

“Y’know, I’d really like to see you in this,” he says quietly as he plays with the ball gag, ignoring what Seth is saying for the most part, but it’s as if Seth doesn’t hear him as he’s searching through the box.  He probably hasn’t – he has a tendency of getting sucked into things like that, not reacting at all no matter how many text messages you send him.  You step over to Magnus, taking the ball gag from him with a sly smile, and dangle it from your finger as you step around Seth, unfastening it, and when he rose to his full height again with the small black unit in his hand, shaped like a thick marker pen but universally a matte black plastic, you loop the gag around his neck and fasten it there.  Seth looks back at you with a look like _really?_ but his smile is fond, he cannot say no to you.  He does not undo it.  And you snap a secret picture of him, sending it straight to your girlfriends.

“Better,” purrs Magnus, leaning back on your couch, and he really does purr, doesn’t he?  Funny.  He hooks an eyebrow at the device in Seth’s hands as your husband uncaps a medical looking protrusion at the end, like an epipen or diabetes lancet.  You’ve only heard rumours of this thing, and you’re excited to see it in action, sliding your hands over Seth’s shoulders as you stand behind him and straightening his jacket collar.

“Gimme your hand,” says Seth to Magnus, putting out his hand, and Magnus suddenly doesn’t think this is so funny.

“What is that?” he asks, sitting up straighter on the couch.  Seth does not drop his welcoming hand, peering at him.

“Gimme your hand,” he repeats, raising an eyebrow, and Magnus rises, his eye locked on the head of the device.

“What is that.  Seth?  Is that a god damn needle?” Magnus asks, standing up before Seth, but then Seth is only chest to chest with him and armed with – yes, he nods, shrugs – a needle.  Before you can rub your husband’s shoulders encouragingly the gigantic guy has stepped back onto the couch cushion, backing away from you, his knee up on the back of the couch – dropping down to the other side in a smooth movement like a spider.  “It’s an STI test – a needle?  You’re gonna fuckin’ stab me?  Hell no, buddy, that just ain’t on...”

“I dunno why you’re makin’ it such a big deal,” says Seth, as you move to stand behind his shoulder, following Magnus with your eyes, “I mean, it’s just a little prick – ”

You smirk and hold up a hand behind Seth’s shoulder, your little finger outstretched and waggled for Magnus to see, tilting your head playfully.  Magnus almost grins, but his anxiety is clearly rocketing beyond his sense of humor.  He gives a wheeze through his teeth, holding onto the back of the couch, and bares his teeth desperately at Seth.  “You’re gonna _jab me_ with a needle, a _Dethklok_ needle?  You gonna give _Dethklok_ my _blood?_   My fuckin’ _DNA?_   Oh man, I am so not into that, you don’t even _know_ – ”

“Well, I don’t see how you have a choice,” says Seth thoughtfully, playing with the device in his hand, “I gotta protect my motherfuckin’ wife.  You get me.  She’s my number fuckin’ one, bro, y’know what I’m sayin’ – I take this shit seriously.”

“ _Buddy._ ”  Magnus hunches in front of you, leaning over the back of the couch and holding out his palms imploringly.  “We’ll just use a rubber!  We already did that, that was fine, man, c’mon – there’s a _degree_ of _risk_ in this shit – ”

“Aw, yeah, but like, fuckin’, risk minimisation, huh,” says Seth, tweaking his eyebrows up, “Safer if I do, y’know, and I mean... you don’t _have_ to – I mean... no one likes those things.”

Magnus looks at him, looks at you, and then puts his hands over his head in defeat.  “You want me... to fuck your wife... without a rubber,” he says, and Seth snorts shortly at him.

“Uh, I didn’t say that.”  But you wish he did, your hand on your hip, watching them face off with a sincere ulterior motive.  Because that’s what you’ve got planned, bitches.  Dick just ain’t the same in plastic.

Magnus looks up again, his face furrowed with his anger and fear.  “It ain’t happening,” he asserts with a weird laugh, and you like seeing him like this – angry, afraid.  But Seth won’t give up that easily – you know he won’t.

“Babe,” says Seth to you, passing you the device, and talks with his hands as he tries to negotiate with your guest and you swoop an alcohol swab from your box and move slowly around the two of them, Magnus’ panicked glance shooting to you even as he tries to talk Seth around again.  “Magnus.  C’mon.  You’re a fuckin’ fag, I gotta protect my _family._ ”

“I don’t have shit,” growls Magnus, his eye flicking to you – back to Seth as he leans in to him.

“Oh yeah?  I read online that you got motherfuckin’ Hep C,” says Seth with half a laugh at him, and Magnus recoils at his words.

“That’s _fucking bullshit_ , _asshole_.”  The fingers are out – pointing straight in Seth’s face as he sidesteps away from you, rounding the couch now.  “You – you fucking _know_ their fuckin’ _fans_ will do anything to drag my reputation over the fuckin’ coals...”

“Mm, I dunno, bro!”  Seth quirks his head curiously, grinning, his hand in his pocket and Magnus’ finger in his face.  “Y’know what I mean?  Why should I be-lieve you?” he adds sing-song, and you think he’s playing with his dick there for a second before you realise what he’s up to.

“All that shit that went down in motherfuckin’ _Dethklok_ ,” says Seth, circling the couch towards you, and Magnus slinks around on the other side.  For now, you stay put.  “Did ya give my brother hep?  I mean.  That’d explain it!  Chuh.  Or maybe ya got it off him, fuckin’, needle monkey, junkie, douchebag, ha!  I lost count of the number of times I saw that little fuck smacked out on TV.  Is that it?  You scared of what you could get offa me?  Well – ”

“I am _not_ ,” snarls Magnus, his shoulders hunched protectively, “I’m just sayin’ it’s _unnecessary_ – ” and Seth tilts his head at him expectantly.  Magnus spits with chagrin.  “Jesus!  It was the fuckin’ 90s!  I sorted that shit out, it fuckin’ _resolved_ , man, I’m fuckin’, _careful_ now – ”

“Ah-ha!” Seth points at him, rolls his shoulder.  “Get him babe, fuckin’ stick him!”

As you take another step in Magnus’ direction, on the other side of the couch now, he glares desperately at you, looks at the door, and then seers back towards Seth.  “You fucking shitdog.  This shit is totally fuckin’ unnecessary, you’re just _working_ for _Dethklok_ – ”

“Aw, yeah, I am, it’s on the pay cheques, but, uh, this was all my idea.  C’mon now, heh!  Gimme your blood.”  Seth gestures him closer, circling the couch, and Magnus steps around, away from him again, his eye still on you.

“Look,” he says, in one final attempt to talk Seth around, trying to gather his dignity back as he stands up straight and leans on the couch arm, “I understand, okay.  I get it.  I do.  I just – I _don’t_ want my DNA in Dethklok’s system.  How much clearer can I make that to ya, Seth?  They’ll kill me, man – ”

You look to Seth for his order, and he’s just smiling, his hand deep in his pocket.  You all hear the first beep, lifting your heads as one, and Magnus’ good eye pinpoints.  His hand rushes to the collar with the second beep, tugging at it, staring at Seth.  “You didn’t, man,” he wheezes, cramming his fingers under the straps, and Seth keeps grinning.  “Tell me ya didn’t.”

“Tonight is mine, motherfucker,” he says on the fourth beep, watching calmly as Magnus wrestles with the collar, “And I ain’t gonna let nothin’ ruin it for my lil’ angel.  So best get on your fuckin’ knees, y’know, shut your mouth, and don’t think you can fuck with me, heh,” and he clicks his tongue as the last warning tone shrills between you.  You barely hear Magnus’ last drawn breath before he drops again, falling with a smack to the tiled floor, his body locked up like a folded ironing board.

It’s fucking slapstick.  Every damn time.  Just watching a big man go down, it’s just... really funny, y’know... and you stifle a giggle behind your hand, recording it with your phone for a private message to the girls.  “Honey,” says Seth, indicating to Magnus, and you take his lead and saunter over to your guest, curled on the ground on his knees and elbows, his hands pulling at the collar futilely.  He sees your heels before he sees you, looking sideways from beneath his mop of curls at your feet, and then he rolls onto his ass, sitting up and looking up at you.

“It’s fuckin’,  inhumane,” he says through gritted teeth, out of breath, as you drop down to his level, crouching before him and holding out your hand.  Magnus gazes at you, as though he’s hurt.  “Honey... sweetie?  You married a god damn rat,” he says eventually, and puts out his hand for you, leaning on his other on the cold tiles.  “You ain’t gonna give me a choice, I get it.”

“Mm hmm.  Don’t freak out.  It’s anonymous,” says Seth, watching you and sipping at his beer again, “This cat is in the motherfuckin’ bag, babe.”

“And the bag is in the river,” finishes Magnus softly, watching you close as you massage his middle finger to bring the blood to the pad.  His palm is warm and large in your dainty hand, the first real skin-to-skin contact you’ve had with him and... yes, you are a little surprised how warm he is, how large he is next to your body.  His breath stills when you tear open the swab’s little packet and rub it over his finger, and then you press firmly against his finger pad with the head of the device and hear his hiss of breath when the needle sticks him.

The device beeps – and Magnus flinches at that more than the needle itself – and a panel on its side lights with approval, showing the internal unit is processing as the needle withdraws and the bead of blood wells on Magnus’ fingertip.  You eye it, but rise shortly after, obediently returning the tester to Seth.  He knows what the next step is, after all, and he kisses your cheek when he takes it off you.  “Thanks, babe.”  His hands are much cooler than Magnus’.  You can’t help but notice.

“It takes ‘round fifteen minutes for it to, y’know, ping up the result,” explains Seth, and he crosses to Magnus – who has his finger in his mouth, sucking the blood off, and pulls it out quickly, awkwardly – and offers him a hand up, the device tucked in his other hand against the neck of his beer bottle as Magnus takes it and gets shakily to his feet.  “So... no fuckin’ funny business...”

He smirks up at Magnus, but the guy just curls his lip down at Seth again.  “Yeah, sure.  Suddenly I ain’t in the mood, for some reason,” he growls, pushing Seth aside as he moves for the platters again, snatching up a handful of the chocolates and dropping back down on the couch.  “You ain’t gonna put some music on or nothing...?  Jeez.”

Seth looks up at you as he fiddles with the device, shaking it like a pregnancy test as if this will speed it up.  “You heard ‘im, sugartits.  Put some  fuckin’ music on!” he says, and you cast a vicious look back at him as you return to the bar with the slow clop of your chunk heels over the tiles.  They still haven’t told you what they want apart from, um, maybe champagne?  And you still don’t have any fucking ice.  You ain’t doing anything until he takes care of your guest.

Sprawled on the couch with his legs spread wide, Magnus sits up straighter.  “What happens if I don’t want to fuck her?  Are you just gonna tase me, man?” he asks, sucking on his finger wound again between chocolate truffles, “That’s pretty fucked up.  Just saying.”

Seth stands over the end of the vast couch, frowning at Magnus.  “Oh, cuz, huh, like that’s gonna happen,” he says in a drawl, “I mean, you got motherfuckin’ eyes, right, dude – or, uh, eye, y’know...”  He ignores Magnus’ unimpressed stare.  “Just look at that motherfuckin’ ass, bro!”  Seth gestures to it as you’re rounding the corner of the bar, and Magnus looks over his shoulder too, giving you an appreciative look up and down.  You roll your eyes at them and swing your hips a little more.  Fucking _boys._

“Okay, that’s fair,” muses Magnus, running his fingers down his beard thoughtfully and checking you out from afar as you lean on the bar counter and push the ice bucket towards Seth again.  “But she might have a terrible personality.  I mean.  I don’t know her, man.  She might be a fucking psycho.  I have a strict code of never sticking my dick in crazy.  Not without a rubber, anyway...”

He levels a look at Seth, unbuttoning the first couple of buttons on his shirt idly as he does so.  “She married you so she can’t be _sane_.”  He turns to you, looking over his shoulder.  “Was there a drink coming, honey?  I was promised champagne.”

You spike a sculpted eyebrow at him and rattle the ice bucket again.  You ain’t going, this is your fucking party.

“Ain’t that your type, y’know, _crazy_ ,” observes Seth drolly, leaning his hip on the couch arm and shaking the device.  “I ain’t gonna make you do nothin’.  We can just fuckin’... talk.  That’s fine.”

That is _not_ fine, you want that fuckin’ D.  And this idiot you married is just standing around wagging his jaw... – you get back on your phone to Amy and Kate.  They are laughing in your notifications, telling you to get it.  Oh.  You will.

“About what.  We have nothing in common,” grunts Magnus, looking back up at your husband, and the guy shrugs, a smug smile creeping unpleasantly across his face.

“How about, my _brother?_ ” he offers, holding out the device like a wand, and Magnus stares at him for a moment.  Seth mouths his bottle with a smirk.  “I bet you got _lots_ of shit on that lil’ queer, huh.”

“Mm hmm.  That’s what I thought this was about,” says Magnus coolly, pressing his boot against the edge of the table.  “I ain’t talkin’, buddy.  I haven’t spoken to the little shit in a decade, man, I know nothing.  Nothing you wanna hear, anyhow...”

Seth cocks an eyebrow, so Magnus’s expression slides into amused disbelief.  “I’m actually serious,” he says, breaking into a grin, “You don’t wanna know.”

Seth only leans in closer, smiling sweetly, goading him on. 

“I’m for real, serious!  Hah.  Well, if you’re asking for it, Sethy...”  You watch on curiously over your phone as Magnus chuckles at him, searches his memory for a suitably disgusting bone to throw your idiot husband, leaning his head back and rolling his eyes.  “Mm,” he said at last, landing on something, “Did you know that Pickles’ cunt – ”

“No!” protests Seth, his face immediately twisting with disgust.

“ – tastes, like – ”

“ _No!!!_ That ain’t the kinda bullshit that I meant!”

“ – real acidic, like that shit burns, man – ”

You watch on in mute amusement as Seth slams his hands over his ears and starts to chant, _no no no no hell no_ , to drown out what Magnus is saying, the other man’s mouth twisted into a sick grin.  This is interesting, you didn’t know that your, uh, brother-in-law had – interesting.  You smile gorgeously at Magnus when he glances at you, smirking across his shoulder at you.

“You think that’s pretty funny, huh, honey?  I had a girlfriend who tasted exactly like batteries, like sticking your tongue on a battery, or, like, a patch lead, y’know.  Good times,” he says to you, and touches his pierced finger to his tongue playfully for you to see, and in the background Seth’s _no no no no_ s stop as he sees the movement and he removes his hands from his ears.  Magnus notices this, and immediately continues: “And he never fuckin’ washed it right, y’know, so it always had that like, _bite_ of urea, that _sour_ tang of stale piss.  All while your dick is fuckin’ burning -- ”

 _“No no no no heeeellll no!  Hell no!  Hell fuckin’ no!_   _Not cool!”_

Magnus looks very proud of himself as Seth gestures wildly in disgust at him.  He tucks his chin into his chest and smiles, and when Seth finishes, just staring at him, Magnus says, “Still waiting on that champagne, buddy,” to him with big innocent eyes.  Seth glares down at him, leaning on the couch arm, and then snaps it up to you as you step around the bar again, your fingers running up the neck of the other beer bottle.

“Honey, get the man his fuckin’ champagne,” he sneers at you, gesturing to Magnus with an open hand, and you straight up chuck the fucking beer bottle at him.  You pitch it sidearm, high velocity, spinning through the air and past Magnus’ face within inches, the guy recoiling back against the couch cushion in shock, and then only just misses Seth’s head as he darts sideways and the bottle smashes against the titles beyond them, the glass exploding over the floor and the beer fizzing on the tiles.

You take in their shocked faces and raise your middle finger to them, showing off the diamante on your powder pink nail, turn on your heel, and lean on the bar counter to text your girlfriends again.

Magnus lets out a held breath, staring into the black plane of the ceiling-mounted television, and drops his shoulders slowly.  “Psycho bitch...” he breathes, and eyes Seth for his next move. 

For his part, Seth is wired high, he picks up a large lavender form from the table to throw at you – a vibrator  - crowing, “What the fuck, _darling!_ ”, when the device in his other hand starts to beep at him.  He juggles the bottle, vibrator and tester in his hands for a moment, shocked, until he manages to read the results screen on the device, his face dropping into anger again immediately.

“The _fuck!?_ ” he snaps again, shaking it in frustration, “Motherfuckin’, piece of _crap!_ ”  And Magnus is staring up at him, still in shock.  You keep texting, your nails tapping on the glass, crossing your ankles behind you.

“Motherfuckin’... _‘Replace cartridge’!_ ” Seth reads off the display, and then holds it out so the two of you can see it.  You don’t do much more than flick your eyes over to it, but Magnus cranes up a little to read it.  Indeed it does appear to read _REPLACE CARTRIDGE._   Well, they can forget about you doing it, if that’s what the motherfucker thinks.

“It fuckin’ sits there ‘ _Reading...’_ for fifteen motherfuckin’ minutes then it drops this shit on me?!  Fuckin’ _bullcrap._ ”  He looks at you, and sure enough whines, “ _Babe –_ ”, but you stomp your heel on the tiles with a pointed clack.  You ain’t going _nowhere._

“Fine,” grumbles Seth, replacing the lavender vibrator and necking the last of his beer, putting the bottle aside on the table as well.  “Motherfuckin’, _fine._ I’ll _go_.  Magnus, I gotta go downstairs to the med center for a replacement,” he explains to Magnus, the guy sitting back on the couch and watching him closely, “I’ll be back in just a sec.  _Don’t_ move, or Amber here will fuckin’ shock ya dead.  She ain’t merciful, bro... so _stay where you are, y’know what I mean..._ ”

He points at Magnus to a neutral shrug, and then as he passes you, you hold the ice bucket out to him and Seth snatches it from you.  “Okay, okay!  I’m goin’!” he complains, “Take this!” – and he hands you the transmitter (immediately dropped down your top) and mutters something about _demanding bitch_... _how can I say no to you, ooh..._ as he retreats and the elevator doors close on him again.

Then silence.  It’s always silent when Seth leaves.  Only your nails tapping on the glass of your phone screen, and in the background, Magnus slowly standing up.  He’s flouting Seth’s orders, obviously, stretching his back with a click as he rises to his full height again, combs his long hair out of its tangles with his fingers.  He looks at the elevator, since gone, and estimates how much time he has, and the next thing you know his shadow settles in next to you at the bar, leaning forward on it as he checks you out at close quarters.  You don’t even look at him over your phone.  You know this game.

Thoughtfully, Magnus traces his hand around the shock collar again, playing with its locks and buckles as he watches you.  “Not gonna shock me then?” he asks, and you don’t humour him with a response – just take a photo of him and send it to the girls, captioned _this bitch tho, lollll_.  Scorpion emoji, scorpion emoji.

Magnus is very pleased with this, however, smiling proudly to himself and scanning the bottles in the bar.  He reaches up to the wine glasses hanging from the top beam, tracing his finger along a round edge.  “Some expensive stuff here, huh,” he says, mostly to himself since you’re still not even looking at him, “Nothing but the best for Dethklok.  I get it.  But I bet he doesn’t even know how to pronounce half this shit.”

This does flick your gaze up, and Magnus catches it, smiling cattishly back at you and leaning in towards you.  “Y’know, I was thinking,” he says softly, really piling on the charm, “Maybe I don’t want a champagne.  Never been fond of the... effervescence... if you have a good red wine, and – I’m sure you do... maybe that’ll keep me satisfied...”

You look up at him again, unimpressed at being asked to do something, and then immediately down at the wine rack, built into the bottom of the bar beneath the end of the counter, before you can help it.  Magnus gazes into your eyes and then his eyes flick down as well, a smile tugging at his thick lips.  “Down there, huh?” he asks, pleased, and you stare at him again.  He’s gonna keep this up until you pull one out.  Fine, whatever.  Might as well give him a look at your ass in the process, since that’s clearly what he wants.

You raise up off your shoulders again, abandoning your phone on the counter as you step into the bar again, making a show of how not about this you are with every sharp movement.  Magnus glows with pleasure, he straightens as well and slips into the bar space behind you, crowded between the two of you – and especially how fucking big he is.  “Let me help,” he says, standing up close over you as he reaches up for two wine glasses, and his hand is suddenly on your waist as he hands them to you, resting there neutrally.  _This_ son of a bitch, huh.

You put both glasses on the counter and stare him in the eye over your shoulder, his smile fixed and innocent.  “Think I recognise that bottle there... the Tablas Beaucastel...” he mumbles down to you, and points at the rack.  Of course it’s one right at the fucking bottom.  “Am I right?  That will make me a very happy man, Amber.”

Funny, he hasn’t said your name before.  You roll your eyes but lean down for it anyway, and his fingers trace along the hem of your dress.

Even when you’re up again he doesn’t pull away, stands right up against you as you uncap the bottle for him and pull the top.  It is the Château de Beaucastel instead of the Tablas, and he is very pleased indeed at this revelation, at the vintage, at the imagined price he assigns it.  “Just perfect,” he purrs as you pour it for him, his hands on your hips, and one slides upwards, gliding up your side until he’s cupping your breast, and you cease pouring the wine abruptly.  A short sniff at the pure gall here, when Seth told him specifically not to – funny, both terrible, bad boys.  You gently remove his hand from your chest, and Magnus immediately steps back from you, his other hand sliding off your waist.

He moves back around the bar so he’s standing opposite you, a cheeky smile glancing across his heavy features like a boy caught out in school, smacked with a ruler across his fingers – no guilt in it at all.  He was just pushing you for the fun of it, and now he leans on the counter instead and you push the full glass towards him.  “Thank you, Amber,” he says graciously, urbane, and smiles up at you.  “Aren’t you gonna have one too?”  You suppose it can’t hurt and pour yourself a shallow glass as he watches on, and he turns the wine bottle around to read the label closer.

“This is Dethklok’s wine...” he observes quietly, as if he’s impressed, and sips it.  It is.  A special vintage from early in their career, requested specifically by the band to accompany a certain European tour long gone.  While the band are probably sick of it by now, other Dethklok officials – like, for instance, your husband – have access to the remains of the reserve, otherwise off limits to the public.  It’s a good wine, even you have to admit.  You’re developing a taste for expensive things.

Magnus looks around, looks at your face and lips, and then at your phone.  He doesn’t ask you before he touches the on button and lights up your screen, showing your notifications – largely in Chinese, as your system uses that language, although the messages from Kate and Amy are in English.  “Huh,” says Magnus, and he smiles up at you.  “After all those messages, it’s... just, strange, to see you in the flesh.  Not bad... just... exhilarating.”  And you stare at him flatly.  Magnus takes the cue to change the topic, sipping the wine genteelly.

“You and Seth have a kid, don’t you?” he asks, looking up at you, and your mouth twitches just enough to reveal that this is the case.  “You have any photos?  I’m just curious,” he says, and after a second to think about it you oblige, unlocking your phone and navigating to the most recent photos of you, Seth and the baby together, smiling together on a beach trip.  Partly because the baby looks just the fucking cutest laughing in your arms, but also because Seth’s bucket hat is the worst thing in the whole world.  Poor idiot needs to cover up every ginger inch in the Australian sun, hat, shirt and zinc, the whole package.

Magnus’ eyes say, _indeed_ , _that is certainly a juvenile human,_ but his voice says, “Aw, man.  Look at that lil’ lamb.  Tch.  You must be so proud, momma,” and he flicks through to the second and third photos, the same picture seconds apart.  You are proud, and smile at him when he looks up at you again.  “I’ll read your thoughts, momma – nah, none of my own,” he says, although that’s not what you were thinking at all.  “Not that I know of, anyway.”

Sus.  You purse your lips at him, but then realise he has continued swiping through your photos to your private pictures as he talks to you.  You quickly confiscate your phone with a sharp glare, and that cheeky boy smile returns.  “Sorry, momma,” he says this time, keeping his head low – below yours, hard with his height, so he’s always looking up at you.  “Curiosity killed the cat.  You’re a very beautiful woman... I just want to get to know you.  But so quiet...”

He straightens now, towering over you again as he coolly sips his wine.  “You know, I... understand... why you’d do this,” he muses, taking you in as you check your notifications again.  “I understand... you know, you deserve the best.  For you and your kid – yeah, I get it.”

Does he really.  You text Kate back idly, and Magnus leans his hip on the bar.  “But he doesn’t deserve you,” he observes, and your eyebrow hikes though you don’t give him the dignity of a glare.  Magnus taps his nails on the counter top, as though he’s annoyed by your very relationship.  “God,” he says, more to himself than you, “No.  You deserve so much better than that little weasel.  You deserve to be satisfied...”

But right at that moment the elevator opens, spitting the bothered Seth back into the penthouse, and Magnus straightens from the counter as if you did electrocute him, starting as he’s caught out.  “Err, I’m from Fresno, so – the Tablas are around, y’know,” he lies on the spot, making up some bullshit for Seth to hear, and you give him a flat look as Seth storms towards you, ice bucket and champagne in his arms and device in his other hand, pointed at Magnus like a magic wand.

“What the fuckin’ fuck, bro!  I told you to stay down there!” snaps your husband, and he dumps the ice bucket on the bar counter between you.  “Send me all the fuckin’ way down there and you fuckin’ start on a different bottle?  You fuckin’ – fuckin’ douchebag!” he spits into Magnus’ face, and the guy stands tall above him, pulling away from his spittle.

“It’s fucking vinegar anyhow,” sneers Magnus down at him, and downs the remainder of his glass quickly.  “Give me some champagne.”  Though he looks at you, Seth quickly bumps you out of the bar and takes over, fetching the flute glasses and working on the champagne bottle, the device abandoned on the bar counter.

“Ungrateful son of a bitch.  That wine is mint, that wine is like twenty fuckin’ grand,” mutters Seth, and both you and Magnus peer for the device, but you get to it first and snatch it up before your guest can grab it, reading it quickly.  Clear.  The motherfucker’s clear.  This shit is _on._

Seth pops the bottle beside you, grinning wildly.  “That’s right, bitch.  Motherfucker’s _all neg,_ ” he purrs, and Magnus – leaning on the bar counter again – looks genuinely surprised.

“Would not have guessed that,” he mutters to himself, but you frankly don’t care.  A stat is a stat.  Motherfucker, it is _on._

Seth pours the champagne and dumps the bottle back in the ice, handing the glass to Magnus and then holding his own out for a toast.  “To fuckin’, without a rubber, y’know what I mean,” he offers, and Magnus eyes him, a disbelieving smirk on his face, and he lightly touches their glasses to a clink.

“To insane luck, man,” he offers instead, and this you can agree with more, and clink your own glass to the two of theirs. 

“Now get the fuck back down on the fuckin’ couch, you son of a bitch.  I didn’t tell you could stand up, fuckin’, talk to my wife,” snaps Seth, and he points to the couches again.  You smile, thinking that yes, he must be getting off on the power trip.  He’s wearing down Magnus, slowly, and though right now the guy shakes his head and stands up properly, retreating back to the couch and dropping down in the middle of it, you know it won’t last forever.

Magnus has a point about the music – while Seth slinks over to your guest and sits beside him, pulling the mirror with the drugs close to divide it into lines, you set up something on the surround sound speakers to play from your phone, just a nice little RNB thing, nothing too distracting.  Magnus looks up in surprise when it starts, but settles back immediately after, eyeing Seth and the drugs beside him.  “Finally,” he hums, sipping on the champagne, and you come to them, putting the ice bucket and the champagne bottle on the table with everything else before you sit on Magnus’ other side.  “Are you gonna tell me what it is, now?  I don’t wanna get a nostril full of angel dust here.”

“Coke and molly,” says Seth, separating it into two small lines and one larger, “Mostly molly.  Fuckin’ keep us up... and keep us _up_ , heh.”

Magnus smiles at him, reclining back in his seat.  “Uh huh.  I guess if you don’t have time to establish your own loving relationship, store-brought is fine,” he quips, and Seth offers him a bill and the shortest line.  Magnus doesn’t even take the mirror, just gazes at him.  “Mm, no.  I’m bigger than both of you, I should get the biggest one – _scientifically_ , buddy.”

Seth quirks an eyebrow at him, retracts the mirror.  “You dunno what I’m capable of,” he mutters as he divides the lines again, “Regular shit don’t do shit for me, bro...” and Magnus just watches him, humming to himself.

“I think I do know.  Be fair now.”

The final division is 1.5:1.5:1.0, and Magnus doesn’t protest this time, snorting one of the longer lines obediently when it’s offered and passing it on to you so that you can snort the shortest.  The last goes to Seth, who is correct about his drug resistance, as Magnus sniffles and rubs his nose distractedly.  “Been a while,” he mumbles, “Since I had ecstasy, man.  Or coke.  But since it’s a special occasion, I guess, yeah...”  And he massages his nose with his fingers, swallowing sorely, watching as Seth snorts it easily.

“If you ain’t gonna torture me, but you _are_ plying me with drugs, does that make me one of your whores, Seth?” asks Magnus teasingly, stretching his arms across the back of the couch – behind both of your shoulders.  Seth sneers at him, even snickers, but is more focused on sucking up every last crystal from the mirror.  Magnus instead looks down at you, barely an inch beside him on the couch, his smile distant and pleasured.  “How do you feel about daddy being a pimp?” he asks, and Seth snorts at him angrily amidst his other snorting.

“Dickass.  She don’t care.  I’m reformed and shit, I did my fuckin’ time,” he says, rubbing his snub nose, pink with the snorted crystals.  In truth... it’d be wrong to say you care, but also to say that you don’t.  It’s complicated.  Not something you wish to discuss right now.

“You know he almost killed this woman?  Did you know that’s why he was in prison?” Magnus asks, ignoring Seth, and there’s a fake concern to his face as he searches you with his dark eye.  “With a record like that, dunno if I should trust him not to abuse that little buzzer, huh.  Oh, but... you got that now, huh.”  He smiles gently at you, looking unabashedly at your tits, and Seth swallows a throatful of snot on his other side, coughing pointedly once he has it down.

“Will yer _stop_ eyein’ up my wife like she’s a piece of fuckin’ meat, dude?” he scolds Magnus, and the guy’s attention is torn from you again, back to Seth placing back the mirror on the glass coffee table.  You get out your phone, lining up an appropriate playlist while they talk.

“Thought that was why I’m here, Seth.  To fuck your wife.”

“Ahahahaa... those ain’t the words I used.  You’re _gay._ ”

“Oh... basically, they were.  I mean, it’s not like you said _ménage à trois_...”

“What’s that?  I think we got that wine, eh.  I mean, if you want...”

While Seth is pointing to the bar, Magnus leans over you again, creepy and looming.  You can smell his cologne whenever he pulls near, and it’s not any of the expensive brands you can recognise straight away – something else, musky – vetiver, oak moss, pepper.  Where his wrist lies above your shoulder, you can pick the undernote of lime.  Seth stinks like a men’s locker room at a top league football club, like he is an alarmed skunk in a citrus orchard.  He does not understand how cologne is supposed to mingle with someone’s natural scent, just tries to drown it, and that’s whatever, you know.  You married him.  Magnus is creepy, but at least he seems to get it, and that, at least, is attractive – for a once off, anyway.

“Your husband is a cuckold.  Right?  That’s the truth.  _That’s_ why I’m here,” he says to you, and you don’t even look up at him, noting Seth’s nervous laughter on the other side of the couch.

“That ain’t true!  Babe.  Tell him it ain’t that way.”

But really you have no evidence it isn’t, so you say nothing and add a few songs to your playlist.

“Babe!”  Seth slaps his knee frantically to get your attention, but he doesn’t deserve it.  “Seriously?  He ain’t shit, don’t listen to him, he don’t even _know_ me.”

Though you don’t move, you hear Magnus’ chuckle, feel his eyes on you, and then he drops his arm around your shoulders.  It’s heavy, warm.  He’s testing you.

“ _Babe,_ ” snaps Seth at this, rolling his eyes up at Magnus, “He ain’t _shit!_   You motherfuckin’ creepshow... he ain’t good for shit, babe, he’s a sucked candy, he’s fuckin’, used up, all those fuckin’ groupie _whores_...”

“Aw, don’t call ‘em that,” says Magnus with a curl of a smile, clearly not seriously upset at the slur.  You allow his arm to stay where it is.  The cologne is quite nice, actually.  “Sluts, sure, but _whores_...?”

Seth sits up in the corner of the couch, pulling out his own dethphone.  “You’re such a fuckin’, gay fuckin’ slut, I fuckin’ – I know!  I talked to those whores, I fuckin’ know, eh?  I know.  Your name has gotta be spread like shit across the entire fuckin’ web – ”

Magnus looks at him placidly, mildly amused.  “Thought you’d have already searched that,” he remarks, and Seth sniffs at him.

“I got _some_ dignity.  I didn’t search it plus groupie whores.”

As Seth buries his head in his phone, tapping away like a deranged hen with his forefinger, Magnus pulls you against his side.  “Aw dear, oh _no_ ,” he says sweetly, “Don’t... not in front of your _wife..._ you’ll find the Dick List.”

“Therrr what?” says Seth, not looking up.

“The Dick List.  It’s like, a list of several hundred rockstars or something, compiled by groupies, listing how big their dicks are, how they are in bed, y’know...”  Though he’s explaining generally, Magnus is talking directly to you now, since you have not moved from his warm side.  Again, it is nice, to be held, even if the motives lead something to be desired.  Magnus is so large his body feels like it could be a tree hollow, surrounding you.  You are not used to big men.  You hope the list tells you he lives up to his shoe size, though really, you already know that he doesn’t, not in some spectacular way. 

“Found it!  _Hah._ ”

Seth scrolls.  At the back of your mind you wonder about Nathan Explosion, that monstrous creature, since you can see it’s a beast even from a distance.  Magnus, smirking beside you, apparently has intimate knowledge of the list because, looking at you, he smoothly recites – well, not Nathan, like you’d wanted.  Actually, something you never knew you profoundly didn’t need in your life.

“ _Pickles the Drummer - Dethklok, Snakes n Barrels.  We heard Temper Tantrum Boy had one of his famous models take a dump in a kitty litter box_ ,” he reads off an internal script, and Seth crows with disgust from the corner of the couch.

“What the fuck, man!  What the fuck!  Why do you _know_ that!”

 “ _I don’t know about you, girls, but my pussy ain’t going anywhere near a litter box..._ ” purrs Magnus, and you glance sideways at him.  Like, _ew._   Rockstars are fucking weird.

“Found it, I fuckin’ found you, fuckin’, gaylord,” snarls Seth triumphantly, setting in to read, and Magnus holds you close, the smile not having shifted from his face.  “ _Magnus Hammersmith – ex-Dethklok.  Reports are that Magnus is a total charmer, despite lookin’ like a freak, heh!  Very romantic, at least until he’s done_ – ”

Magnus hums to himself, and then begins to echo Seth, reciting from memory, “ _Nice cock and exciting in bed.  Likes to cuddle but may not be so friendly in the morning._ ”  He sounds proud.  Probably with due cause.  Your husband is dropping off in uncertainty as he goes.

“ _Makes you feel like he actually is making love to you and... loves to... drown in a girl’s pussy..._ ”  Seth sniffs shortly.  “Ew.  _Likes souvenirs... photos, movies_... err...”

“ _Condom user_ ,” finishes Magnus for him, smiling charmingly at Seth as he grits his teeth at the screen, “ _Good for a few times in one session._   Man.  I love groupies, you know?  Salt of the earth, those girls.”

“Motherfucker.  Mother _fucker,_ ” curses Seth, closing down his phone again, pretending not to be looking at Magnus.  “As if that shit is true.  Groupies – ”

“Don’t have any reason to lie, Seth.” 

“Well, it ain’t fuckin’ _true_ , is it?” sneers Seth, and you finally look up at Magnus, his fingers stroking your arm, asking him yourself.  He doesn’t answer Seth, but meets your gaze and nods to you with a flick of his head, as though it’s nothing.  In fact it’s exciting.  Seth’s plan has backfired, he’s only made promises that Magnus seems confident he can fulfil.  And that’s _exciting_ ; you pull up against his side, curious.

“If I’m not here to fuck your wife, Seth, then why am I here?” asks Magnus rhetorically, his smirk never leaving as he finishes his champagne and places the glass on the table.  His hand slides from around you – disappointing.  So you check your messages again, update the girls.  “I mean, you’re straight.  So it can’t be about that... even though you still seem _convinced_ that I’m gay, no matter how many times I tell you _bi_... so _why_ would you want a gay man here?”

You hear Seth make a strangled sound, Magnus moving to loom over him instead, still talking in a malevolent, gentle voice: “Not for your wife, man... no... not for _that..._ ” 

The girls are having a good night out.  Some really sweet looking cocktails – just starting their night, together so they can laugh at you between themselves.  They’ve sent you shims of their outfits and they are _fire._   Hold on, your thoughts are usually interrupted by Seth by this point if he’s around.  The silence is kinda eerie...

You hear him say, “I’m not _gay..._ ” in a breathy voice, and when you look up he’s locked in Magnus’ embrace, his arm looped around the other man’s waist where he’s been backed across the arm of the sofa, his shoulders arched back across it, his other hand pinned to couch as Magnus kisses him open mouthed right next to you.  You can’t help it, you gawk.  You never thought you’d fucking see _that_ in a million years – your viciously homophobic husband fucking a guy is one thing, you know, kind of disconnected, something Seth could justify in his mind as just an indulgence of the flesh – he’s very weak to those.  But a kiss is something else, it suggests emotion.  And here’s this idiot, locking lips weakly with, yeah, you’re certain now, his _fucking boyfriend_.

This is amazing.  You take a picture of it.

Actually.  Kinda hot, if you’re brutally honest...

Magnus untucks Seth’s dress shirt and snakes his hand up it as you watch, and this makes your husband squirm.  He breaks lips long enough to wheek, “Uh, babe?  Put that camera down...”

Magnus glances back at you, smirking viciously.  “Oh, naw.  She’s fine.  You like this, honey?” he purrs, and then goes back to terrorising your husband, pushing right up against him and running his hand beneath his shirt.  You lower the phone anyway, sitting up higher on the couch to look in wonder.  Magnus kisses Seth’s neck, even as Seth’s hand twists white-knuckled into his denim jacket.

“Babe... I’m not gay...” he chokes, and Magnus laughs against his neck.  You laugh too, silently.  His knuckles lock tight where they are as Magnus’ hand slides out from his shirt and works on his belt instead, slipping the leather tail out of his buckle easily.  You pour yourself some more champagne and lean in to watch.  Seth appears to be strangling on his own tongue.  “ _Babe?_ ”

You make a soft sound of acknowledgement, too late – as Seth gags when Magnus pushes his large hand down the front of his trousers.  “ _Help,_ ” he wheezes, and it’s only then that you notice his white knuckles aren’t just tension and start to rise, lowering your Versace heel to the tiles again.  But Magnus has noticed too, and withdraws quickly, pulling Seth up to sitting from the couch arm and kissing him lightly on the lips as he releases him. 

“Sorry, sorry,” he mumbles, smiling sheepishly at Seth, “Okay.  It’s different.  I’m sorry, man.  I just got excited – slowly, slowly, okay.  I get it, it’s okay.”  He sits back central to the couch as you’re standing up, crossing in front of him to check on your husband. 

Seth’s reeling but fine, better for you leaning down to his level and kissing him on the cheek, rearranging his hair for him.  “I’m not gay,” he says softly to you, staring in your eyes, and you just blink in disbelief and straighten again.  Whatever.  A man who’s _not gay_ doesn’t get his wife to help wax his ass crack ahead of their big date night, but that’s for you to know and Magnus to find out.  And you look at the two of them, sitting dumb together before you, and sip your champagne.

“While hubby takes a second to realign there,” says Magnus, “Why don’t you go ahead and sit on my lap, _baby?_ ” and he cranes forward with a pleading look with the last word, rubbing his knee, and you hope that line doesn’t work on groupies.  But you guess you don’t really need smooth lines for groupies... just guitar solos... and you take a second to reassess his long, elegant fingers, and smile at him playfully, and then you sit on him.

You are delighted by the little grunt of discomfort he gives, leaning back under you so you’re sitting across his legs.  His knees are fucking bony, but this allows you to slide closer to his body and his thighs are much more forgiving.  There’s instantly a hand on your ass, because of course.  They all love the ass, it’s like a not-so-secret weapon – separates the men from the boys.  He’s probably quite pleased his face is almost in your tits too.  If you sit on Seth, he likes it for about three seconds and then starts to complain.  But Magnus is a big guy.  He’s got big... legs.

“That’s it, babe,” he says, smiling at you, inches from your face, his left hand roaming over your waist and your ass, his right delicately hiking your skirt up your thighs.  “You know, this is like a dream come true... I’ve been thinking about you ever since Seth here showed me your pictures...”

“I didn’t show them to you,” says Seth sorely from the other side of the couch, eyeing you both and sipping his reclaimed champagne.

“Mm, whatever.  Point is... baby.  You have a spectacular ass.”  Magnus grins at you, ignoring your husband entirely and running his fingers beneath the hem of your skirt, pushed up close to your panty line.  “I just think you should know that.  Body positivity.  Is that right?  I just know I like a woman with some _substance_.”

In the background, you see Seth roll his eyes.  But you don’t really care, you’re just smiling your inane flirty smile at this asshole and sipping your champagne as he feels up your buttocks.  This shit makes you feel like a fucking princess, and with all these diamonds and stylists this time around... it is very, very nice, the affections of another man.

“I’ve fantasised about you, often,” confesses Magnus in a husky but vulnerable tone, almost certainly put on, and he traces his fingers over the soft bare skin of your thigh.  You slide your phone into the same hand as your champagne glass, balancing them with incredible skill, touching his collar with your free hand.  “Ever since... if I’m honest with you, honey, I can barely contain myself – ”

But you don’t let him finish, and silence him by touching your fingers to his lips, and then kissing him.  He doesn’t resist, even for a second, just kisses you softly and holds you close to his body as your fingers wander down his neck, around the lip of his collar, and you undo another two buttons on his shirt as you kiss.  His lips are big and gentle, warm and dry, and he lets you lead, deaf to Seth’s snorting protests in the background.  You can feel his big dick through his jeans beneath your thigh, and smile as you kiss him, your fingers tracing through his chest hair delicately.  It’s a jungle in there.  Is that a nipple bar?  You’ve got to be fucking kidding.

Magnus takes the lightest touch of your finger across his nipple as an invite and gropes, both hands, at your tits.  Not roughly, just perfect, and you kiss him deeper, open-mouthed, your champagne held out to the side.  Seth sneezes angrily like a pissy little terrier dog beside you, neglected, and you pull away from Magnus to smirk at him.  You were going to taunt him, but it’s painfully obvious from his flush and the spike in his white dress trousers that this is having a different effect on him than just plain rage.  A vicious smile cracks your face, and you can barely resist touching him, leaning over to him from Magnus’ lap to cup his jaw and kiss his face, he looks so fucking precious!  Oh, your sweet, idiot baby boy – !

“Babe, sit on my lap, please,” instructs Seth when he pulls away from you, putting on a brave face for your guest.  Magnus isn’t buying it, grinning like a loon, and you just shrug like well, what can you do? and shuffle across because you _know_ this ding dong doesn’t even like it.  So you sit on him, facing Magnus, the short spike of your husband’s dick poking up against your cunt through your dress as you do your best to smother him ass-first.  The idiot grabs your hips and can barely look over your shoulder – he’s only a touch taller than you without heels.  “That’s better,” he says, muffled, and you smile sweetly at Magnus, who is watching all of this with amusement.

He scooches up closer to the two of you, nearly against Seth’s side where he’s squashed into the corner of the sofa.  It’s very, very cosy suddenly.  “I can see who wears the pants in this relationship,” Magnus teases, sliding his arm behind Seth to embrace him, “This is a side of you... I have not seen...”

“Yeah,” says Seth from somewhere under your butt, “I’m the fuckin’ _boss._  Fuckin’ told you, asshole.” 

But Magnus just laughs, murmurs, “You sure are, man,” and kisses him again, his other hand roaming over your thighs again, sliding straight up your skirt while your husband is distracted.  This is sly, but not undesirable, and you sip your champagne and smile at them, at the point beneath you getting harder, and spread your legs for Magnus’ searching hand.  Sitting on your idiot husband, his hands up your body and groping at your tits through your woollen dress, and a stranger’s big hand closing over your black lace panties on your warm, wet pussy, you feel like a fucking queen.

He’s just tucked a finger under the crotch of your panties when the god damn controller falls out from where it was sandwiched between your breasts, Seth’s groping enough to dislodge it, and slips out the bottom of your dress to fall on the floor with a clatter.  You stare at it like, seriously?  But you guess it’s _important._   So you squirm on Seth’s lap, Magnus’ hand leaping to your thigh instead self-consciously, and fish it up from the floor again.

Damn.  What are you going to do with this?  The other two are distracted, so you push it down the back of the couch deep.  No one will really notice and it’s at hand, and you’ll probably have no pockets for it soon anyway.  While you’re doubled over on Seth’s lap, his dick ground up against your pussy as he moans dumbly into Magnus’ mouth, you get an eyeful of the big guy’s erection, outlined in the tight front of his stonewashed jeans.  You suck the inside of your cheek for a second, and then put your champagne aside.  You’re gonna need at least one hand for this.  And you grab Magnus’ thigh, your phone trapped under your manicured fingers, and with your other hand quickly unbuckle his stupid-ass skull belt and strip open his zipper.

There’s a deeper moan from the cologne-stinking pile underneath you and Magnus spreads his legs further, enough to make your quest a little easier.  From there, it’s just a matter of tucking your hair behind your neck and pulling it out, hot and hard in your hand before you even see it, and it does not disappoint.  An easy six inches and not even fully erect yet, a shy, blushing pink from its tip to the darker scar of its circumcision, and that’s where it gets wider too, already wider than it is high, and the girls are right, it is a _nice cock_ , and _interesting_ and _exciting._   It’s all you could have really wished for out of this, outlandish size fantasies aside – this is realistic, and _real_ , and besides that, he’s _clean_ , his dick is clean, and dry, and _nice_ , and you put it straight in your mouth without hesitation, hoe days really not that far behind you, if you’re _realistic_.

You’re rewarded with another moan, pushing your mouth deeper over him.  In the last year of Seth’s embrace, you had kind of forgotten what it was like to have another man’s cock on your tongue – how much bigger it always feels when it’s inside you, how suddenly strange and exciting it is to have gone from barely meeting a creep who’s essentially a criminal to sucking his dick in a few short hours.  You feel like such a crazy bitch, so evil, and it tastes different to Seth’s, but equally good, and feeling that other little pecker ground up against your snatch as Seth suffers under Magnus’ gropes and moans is fucking... _insane_.  If only you could just slip it out of his trousers there, go straight from zero to spitroast just like that... _damn._   Damn!

You’re sucking him, your tongue rubbed against the underside of his wide cockhead, your hand stroking his twitching shaft, when Magnus whines, “Jesus fuck, Seth, you’re a _lucky_ son of a bitch,” and Seth stills beneath you.  You have barely pulled the thing out of your mouth to look back when you feel him squirming underneath you and see his head pop up, kissed raw and with a fresh hickey glowing on his neck, his hair a ruffled chestnut mess, to gawk at you in muted horror.

“Bitch, what the _fuck!_ ”

Uh oh. 

Seth sits up abruptly, dragging himself from under you, Magnus rising too with his curls mussed over his face.  “What the _fuck!!_   Get your hand off his dick, bitch, what the _fuck!_ ” barks Seth, grabbing at your arm, and you quickly sit up and retract it.  Were you not supposed to do that?  Fucking idiot.  How the hell were you supposed to know!

“You motherfucker!” snaps Seth, and he pushes you off his lap so that he can turn his ire onto Magnus.  There’s a slap and you’re up on your feet immediately, teetering on your heels and wiping your mouth.  Oh boy.  You should have known this was how it’d go.  Why the fuck did you marry this guy again?

“Ow!  Jesus, buddy, I didn’t make her do shit!”

A glance at the champagne and diamonds reminds you, and you wiggle your skirt back down and cross your arms as you watch Seth attempt to defend your honour, tussling with Magnus on the couch.  He’s trying to strangle the poor bastard but can’t get his hands around the collar with Magnus pulling his head in protectively.  Dick out this whole time, just sort of bouncing around there.  You could pull your husband off at this point.  Or you could check your messages.  Guess which you do.

Eventually Seth is pushed clean off the couch by his fucking boyfriend, and he falls into the floor with a thud at your feet, immediately clawing his way back up with a scream of frustration.  But he’s down just long enough for Magnus to spring up, hastily shoving his dick back in his jeans again.  “Jesus fucking Christ!  You’re mad, man!” he snarls at Seth, batting away his clawing hands as he grabs up at him from the couch, and then he grabs both of Seth’s legs and chucks him bodily onto the couch, stepping clear in his wake.  “What the _fuck_ is wrong with you?  You want a fucking threesome, but you don’t want her to touch me?  You’re fucked!  You’re _completely_ fucked!”

Magnus grabs the champagne bottle from the ice bucket and strides off through the lounge, stopping short at the huge glass windows that open onto the balcony, the sky dark outside, pulling up as he tries to work out which window is a door and which is just glass, cursing Seth as he goes.  “Motherfucking... _moron._   Fucked in the head!  You’re fucking – you’re _dreaming,_ Seth, you’re fucking _dreaming_ ,” he snarls, and finally chances on the door, slipping out into the cold night and slamming the sliding door behind him.  So much as you can slam a sliding door.  Regardless, you’ve lost him.

You look at your husband, sitting on the couch like a complete fucking moron with his arms folded in front of his chest, face burning, glaring up at you.  You have nothing to say to him.  So you take a photo of his dumb ass face, and then you turn on your heel, and leave him to it.


	4. It's Your Brand New Leopard Skin Pillbox Hat

Magnus is standing on the balcony.

You slide the door closed behind you as you join him outside, overlooking the glittering night city sprawling far below you.  Magnus’ silhouette is cut out against the churning clouds of the gathering storm, the lights from inside pulling the blacks he wears forward against the depthless darkness.  He drinks straight from the champagne bottle, and he doesn’t look at you until you come to his side, leaning on the balcony railing, the breeze shifting his curls on his shoulders.

“Have you come to apologise for your husband?” he asks in a throaty, offended voice, and you purse your lips at him, one hand on the rail and one pinning your phone to your hip, and shake your head.  Even if you were, his tone is enough to flag he wouldn’t accept it.  Instead he curls his lip at you and then casts his gaze back out across the city.  “Good.  He hasn’t earned shit, honey.”

You are _well_ aware.  Your useless husband is still sitting on the couch, his hands on his temples, staring into the tiles where your bottle smashed earlier with his eyes wide open and vacant, obsessed with his own jealousy.  As you stand there together, looking across the city, Magnus eyes you out of the corner of his one good eye.  His bad one is lit with the fuzzy glow of the city, a muddy pearl fascinating and chilling to look at.  There’s something in his flaws, unlike in Seth’s – in Magnus, there’s a story, a frightening one, and it’s that fear that’s erotic in a crossed-wires, bad way, something you shouldn’t desire.  But he can feel your gaze, and stealing his own, he is part way through turning to look at you again, his hand suddenly clutching your own, when Seth’s muffled yell breaks your peace.

Both of you turn to look over your shoulders in time to see the limited edition red wine explode over the floor inside, splattering Seth and the white couch and the white tiles like a fucking massacre.  Seth turns away as you watch and storms to your bedroom, more muffled screaming following afterwards.  By your side, his huge warm hand nursing yours, Magnus looks over his shoulder at the broken bottle and spill of expensive wine, then turns it down to you, his brow quirking curiously. 

“You two got more in common than you let on, huh,” he observes, his lips curled into a delicious little smirk, and he makes a show of rolling his eyes back as he turns properly to you, shaking his hair over his shoulders.  “Waste of my time,” he says, put upon, “Waste of all our time.  But it was nice to meet you, momma.”

You give him a flat look, your hand still held gently in his massive paw.  You know that the king of Seth’s heart is his dick, and so it’s just a matter of time until he comes around and then he’ll be down for anything, simpering and begging for punishment – that’s just the way he is.  Sure, it’s going to be a long night.  But it’ll be worth it.  It’s not like Magnus is going anywhere exactly; with the boundary sensor on the collar he can’t even leave the building – not that he knows that.  But that’s just his lot tonight.  He waits.

Right now, he looks in your eyes for a long time, the low gaze that precedes a kiss with your bodies close enough that you can feel his body heat.  The taste of him is still on your tongue, your body still buzzing from the groping and grinding and warm from the edge of the ecstasy, and standing against him your hand trails in his open shirt collar.  And you are just about to kiss him when he whispers to you, “Do you even speak English?  Or was that all just Google Translate...?” and then you draw the fuck back with a clack of your heels on the outside pavers and glare straight through his dumb, racist head.

“Okay,” says Magnus helplessly, swaying close to you, “Sorry.  I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean it that way,” but he totally did.  On his next sway close, as if he still deserves a kiss after pulling that shit, you slap him.  Not hard.  Just enough to give him a scare.  It works, too, and he jerks up straight after that, clutching his face with all the pathetic drama of your husband.

“Ow, damn,” he swears, and as you turn on your heel and stalk back into the house you hear him hiss, “Crazy bitch,” after you before he necks the champagne again.  Which, whatever.  You’re used to fucking assholes.  But they’ve at least got to pretend to respect you.

Back inside, everything stinks of red wine.  It looks like someone’s been murdered in here, the way it’s splattered up the white couch, and peering around you spot your husband standing in the doorway of your bedroom, his white suit smattered with red spots like he’s cut someone’s throat himself.  He leans on the doorway with his shoulder, his ankles crossed, and won’t look up at you, his face puffy from crying into the pillows in your room, ball gag still dangling around his throat, and it’s a beautiful sight.  A vision.  Tonight could still be good.

“Sorry,” says your husband, looking plaintively at your Versaces.  You cross to him, stepping carefully over the shattered glass, and wish you got that one little word on film, almost as much as you wish he could have seen you hit his boyfriend, and you take his face in your hands with your phone case pressed to his cheek.  Accepting his apology, you kiss him softly, and his skin tastes salty like his tears.  Is he ready to behave?  He crushes his face against you in your kiss, touching his tongue to yours, and you wonder if he can taste Magnus on you – but then he pulls back, his light eyes searching your face, and moves back from you and back to the bar.

He’s uncapping himself another beer when Magnus skulks in again, having noticed your peace through the full length windows and letting himself in cautiously with as little sound as he can.  You are leaning on the couch and describing this through messages to Kate and Amy, but you see Magnus’ nose wrinkle at the wine stench, and Seth looks up at him and nonchalantly as anything says, “Nice of ya to join us, dingus.”

Jesus Christ.

You sit down on the couch as you wonder at your stupid, stupid life.  Magnus sneers at Seth and tilts the bottle of champagne at him, but before he can say anything in retaliation the shrill, alarm sound of Seth’s phone going off bites out over the RNB track you otherwise had softly pulsing in the background.  The two of them meet eyes, Seth’s hand poised over his pocket, and then another alarm sounds, this one for real.  Seth and Magnus look at the ceiling, following the source.  But you’re more interested in your phone.

There’s an alert demanding your attention, popping up over your otherwise juicy conversation.  _WARNING:  Security breach.  Please stay in your current location and await further instruction. (CODE BLUE)_

Interesting.  You dismiss it as a voice over the in-house security system announces the same blue alert to your husband and Magnus.  Finally, as the alarm falls silent, Seth answers his phone, staring in Magnus’ eyes as Magnus mouths anxiously, _me?  Is it me?_ and instantly swears at what he’s told.  “Yeah,” he says into the handset, “Yeah.  Fuck, seriously?  I’m _kinda busy_ – yeah, fuck, _fine!_   Yeah, _fine._ ”  And he hangs up.

“It ain’t you,” he tells Magnus, who visibly relaxes, frowning at him.  Seth turns to you instead, gesturing with his phone.  “Useless fucks need me up there in the control room.  Gotta call the shots, y’know what I’m sayin’?”  Sure.  You don’t even look up at him, and Seth tries pointing his phone at you for a little longer until he realises that’s it.  “Yeah,” he says, defeated, and points at Magnus instead.  “I gotta run.  I’ll be back though, so no fuckin’ screwin’ around, aight?”

 _Aight,_ you hear Magnus murmur back in slight disbelief, but Seth takes that as a legitimate answer and turns away, cursing to himself.  The next thing you hear is the elevator closing on his back.  Boy, it must _suck_ being the boss, huh?

It’s just you and Magnus now, and if you thought he’d learned his lesson creeping earlier then you are sorely mistaken.  It’s a matter of a few minutes before he puts down the bottle and creeps over to you, and predicting him, you pat the couch beside you without looking up from your phone.  He takes the invite immediately, lowering himself to sit beside you and sinking the couch cushion with his weight, and his hands are in his lap like a scolded child again, a look that doesn’t suit him.  “I am sorry, you know,” he says to you softly, but you don’t look at him.  You don’t pay apologies much.  For the most part, lip service is just a waste of your precious time.

But Magnus continues.  “I know... how that feels.  I wasn’t thinking... I’m sorry,” he says, sucking up to you, but if he has to suck you’d rather see action than words.  Detecting that you’re not exactly hostile to his presence so close, and himself lightly warm from the drugs, he slides his arm around your shoulders again, and you quite happily cuddle up against him.  It feels good, after all, to be cradled against such a large body; there’s something protective about him, rocking along with the fear, and he smiles so proud when he realises he’s got you there, his fingers tracing the neck of your dress.

Again, instantly left alone with them he pushes Seth’s boundaries, your boundaries, creeping over them.  His hot breath is against your cheek and then his lips, placed soft and dry on your jaw, and then your ear, the skim of his tooth against your lobe, and his huge hand resting against your throat possessive – you take it in your hand without even looking up, lifting it, and he pulls quickly away from your face until you move it down to your breast, and then he groans in an appreciative, feminine way and presses his whole body against yours, his lips caressing the shell of your ear as he paws gently through your dress.  And it feels good... he loves it, you can feel it, from the way he explores every curve of it again, the fingers of his other hand trailing through your long hair as he kisses your neck and tilts your head aside.  “Do you like that?” he asks you, hushed, and you just lean your face against his hair gently, the clean scent of its oil, of his body, filling your nose.  Gamely you update the girls on all this, although this time you do it in Chinese so that Magnus can’t spy on you.  It’s not as if translator engines are a revolutionary concept, after all.

Magnus is a moaner, and he hums and purrs against your skin as he sucks marks onto your neck, your body buzzing under his searching hand.  It wanders from your breasts down your waist and belly, over your hips and then under your skirt, slipping over the bare skin of your thighs warm palmed and softly grabbing, pulling your legs apart even as your nails tap on the screen.  You spare a glance under your eyelids towards him, enjoying the way he nearly slips off the lounge in order to feast on your throat – the care he takes, as if he has to convince you – but the moment he realises and looks up at you you’ve flicked your gaze away again, back to your phone.  Magnus hums, having just caught you, and murmurs, “Naughty,” in your ear before his tongue traces hot up your earlobe, leaving a cold trail where it’s passed.

He’s just wound his long fingers beneath the crotch of your panties, silky with your arousal, when Seth texts you.  You barely even react to this, your breath heavy and pleasured just as Magnus’ is getting more frantic and savage as he rolls his fingers over the folds of your slit, and you open your conversation with your husband mutely.  _Its just thos guys babe.  Brb._ Okay.  Sure.  Whatever that fucking means.  He won’t be back soon.

With a long, hot sigh against your flushed neck, Magnus slides a finger inside you, and you can’t help but sigh to match him.  His heavy jaw rests on your shoulder as he curls around you, sinking his long finger in deep until you can feel his knuckle butt up against your labia, and then his slick thumb pad is circling above it, pressing smooth against your buttoned clit in a way that makes your hips jut forward with lust.  He notices – you feel his face pressed against your neck tighten with a smirk – and pushes in, twisting his wrist to move his finger in and out of you in time with the music, his hard on crushed against your hip through his jeans.  It gets your voice in your throat, his huge thumb circling your clit, and you can’t smother a simper of pleasure at it.

To Magnus this means he’s won, and his breath in your ear forms an _oh_ , and when you look across into his eyes he’s smiling in a horrible, triumphant way you recognise as a mirror to Seth’s face.  “Did you say something, momma?” he purrs, and that just won’t fucking float.  So, legs splayed and dress hitched up on your thighs, you tilt the phone in one hand and grab a handful of Magnus’ beard in the other, watching his eyes pinprick and him try to smile as you drag down on it.  But he sinks down, so when you release it you shove your hand into his crown, your manicure scratching his scalp, and push him further.  And like magic, he goes down – sliding off the couch and onto his knees, wedging his huge shoulders between and beneath your knees, his hands clawing your bare thighs as he locks his mouth over the soaked crotch of your panties.

You are quietly fascinated by this, the alien feeling of being sucked through the fabric, as though he’s so hungry for you he would suck every drop from them.  But he soon pulls off to strip them from your legs, making a playful, throaty sound at your cattish smile as he shoves them into his jeans pocket, like... wow.  And you don’t even get a chance to process this because he’s instantly lifted your knees again and pressed his face into your pussy, with no hesitation at all, not a drawn breath, nothing but a fat mouth rubbing hot against your swollen lips.  And you can’t help it, you moan, your hand buried in his curls as they spill across your thighs.  And Magnus feasts.

When Seth goes down on you, it’s a weird, confusing thing that you mostly spend with your legs spread wondering where the fuck he learned to do this.  It’s a lot of slobber and a tongue tensed to a point, so it just feels like that hard edge tracing over your lips, and he licks your clit like a cat lapping the surface of a bowl of milk.  You’re pretty sure he read about that somewhere because it started after you had gotten married, this flicking, but there’s no consistency or tenderness to it and you just don’t come.  In the end Seth is left exasperated and feigning a gross-out and you’re left frustrated and bored, and no one has a good time, so it’s mostly been put on the backburner until Seth can learn some fucking tricks.

Magnus is different.  His mouth is huge and plush, and though he eats you with no particular focus or expertise – more like an uncontrollable, sloppy kiss covering every inch of you – it’s so warm and full that it occupies you on another level.  Just when you think you are getting bored enough of firm, messy kisses over your labia, enough to look at your phone, he pulls something else out – snaking his long tongue inside you, moaning against you so you can feel it all through your pussy and your thighs, crushing his tongue flat and wet over your clit to envelop it in impossible softness that undulates around it.  He’s so shameless there on his knees, so into you to bury himself face-first, it’s overwhelming in a delicious, perfect way.  And then his lips find your clit again, and everything fuzzes over.

Oh shit.  Oh, _shit_.  As he draws his lips tight off of your hard clit and sucks against it, a loud moan escapes you, your fingers twisting into his hair as you rock your hips towards him.  His nails claw into your thighs but he just groans back at you, his brow knotted in concentration, and you feel his voice through your clit as he sucks at it, his beard tickling your vulva the higher on you he rises.  “So you do – have a voice,” he mumbles between sucks, and fucking of course you do... but you can’t find it in you to protest, not while he’s doing _that_ with his tongue.  You fold your ankles behind his back, sliding down in the couch as he sets in, and everything is just so fucking good like you _deserve this_ , and you know you’re going to come on his lips soon when your damn husband ruins it all by calling you.

Your phone is on silent, so only you notice it as it vibrates in your hand, raising your head from where you’d arched it against the couch.  Magnus doesn’t stop, his tongue dipping inside you, but the little nudge seeing Seth’s name on the phone screen has given you pushes you back just from the edge.  You glare at the little _video call from..._ in distaste for a moment, and then a thought occurs to you.

You’re answering this.

Without another thought you do so, the screen changing to a low view of Seth’s face as he holds his phone in his hand.  You can see straight up his button nose from this angle – looks like he’s in a bathroom somewhere, probably sat on the toilet lid for some peace and quiet.  On your side, you give him a view of yourself, sunk in the couch and ruffled, and hope he can hear his lover sucking at you below.  Maybe he’ll learn something.  Serves him right for not just messaging you anyway, the needy little fuck.

 _Hey babe, so_... says Seth over your speaker, and Magnus instantly stops.  You press your thighs harder around his shoulders to spur him on, your heel jagging his back, and he doesn’t respond as Seth continues.  _Looks like I’m stuck up here for a bit longer, uh... they need me, y’know?  They need... some motherfuckin’ leadership, up in here.  So I’m in the control room, they’re showing me... but they’re on it, you know._

Magnus is still between your legs.  He looks up at you from beneath your phone, and whispers to you, “ _Is that_ _Seth?”_

Your eyes dart down to him then back to your husband on the small screen, smirking.  Seth won’t shut up.  _So anyway I’m just taking a little break – to check on the motherfuckin’ love of my entire fuckin’ life!_   He says this loudly, so Magnus can hear him, you presume.  He can, he’s looking up at you with a strange, almost amused expression from between your legs, his breath warm on your exposed cunt.  _So how’re you doin’?  Not havin’ too much fun without me?_

You shrug for the camera and flick your hair over your shoulder, and then you reach between your legs beneath the camera and press on Magnus’ head, urging him back down again.  He stays firm and chuckles even as Seth’s rambling about the security staff again.  “I am not eating you out while you’re talking to your husband,” rumbles Magnus, though he’s clearly delighted by your deviance.  You roll your eyes like, um, _duh_ , you’re not going to talk to him.  But as he speaks Seth suddenly shuts up.

 _What was that?_ Seth asks curtly, and you raise your immaculate eyebrows at him, feigning innocence.  With your other hand you toy with some of Magnus’ curls, as he watches you closely from beneath the phone for your next move.  _Was that Magnus?_ asks Seth, his eyes narrowing, and he leans closer to the screen.  _Where is he?_ You can see his auburn nostril hairs at this angle.  _Amber.  Babe.  Show me Magnus,_ he commands.  And you’re hardly one to tease.

Snatching the remote from the couch with a pink-clawed hand, you turn on the ceiling-mounted television.  It’s just a click and you’ve connected the phone.  Seth appears on screen, and on his end, the camera on the television shows him exactly what’s going on in the penthouse. 

Magnus blinks at you a moment before he realises what you’ve done by Seth’s cursing, and he turns his head to look up at the screen.  On the television, Seth actually gets up and paces around in a little circle of fury, swearing blue and giving you a great view of the walls of the bathroom cubicle.  Magnus thickly says, “Oh, am I on camera?” while looking straight at it over his shoulder, and rests his cheek on your pubic bone, looking placid even with his beard silvery with your cunt.  “Looks like I’ve been punk’d.  Hello, Seth.”

_Son of a bitch!_

“It was her idea,” he says, hefting your legs on his shoulders, and you roll your eyes again – getting a lot of exercise in that department, huh?  You run your fingers through his hair again, urging him back against Seth’s swearing, and Magnus just chuckles as he resists you.  “No,” he says to you, fondly, and then, leaning towards the dethphone so that Seth can hear him, “You married a fucked up bitch, Seth.”

 _Tell me about it, huh._   But he clearly isn’t too bothered, because on the screen overhead you can see Seth has taken up his porcelain throne again, eyeballing you on his phone as he squirms and strips open his belt.  _Woman after my motherfuckin’ heart, you know what I’m sayin’._   He gestures to you on the screen, Magnus watching him over his shoulder with your talons mussing his hair, and then Seth buries his free hand in his fly.  _Chick can’t hold herself back from brain, y’know, huh._

“Brain?” repeats Magnus, baffled, and then realises what he means and makes a bit of a face, licking his lips self-consciously.  “Man.  Brutal.”  And for the first time there, you’re looking at one of them.  You know.  Dethklok.  You study his weathered face and then stretch your legs over his shoulders, wiggling your toes in your Versaces, looking bored up at Seth.

 _Yeah, huh, so?  Do it then._ As Seth says this, leering down at you, Magnus turns to look up at him again, his brow arched.

“Huh?” he says, and Seth cracks a lascivious grin as he leans back on the cistern.

 _No one makes my baby wait,_ coos Seth in the grossest pout possible, and you grin back at him as Magnus rumbles under your thighs, growling as he turns back to your cunt, “Whatever.”  But from the way his lips crush over you again, he sure doesn’t feel upset about it.  And you slump down in your seat, melting into it.  Because Seth is right.  This is what you deserve.

The groupies are right, and Magnus has a technique, even if it appears inexpert at first dive; he knows you can’t plunge straight back in, pulled back a few steps to warm you back up to it, and honestly you’re impressed, interested if he’ll follow the same patterns, if he has a system, you know.  Seth’s face tells you he’s reading this on you, but all he says is, _yeah, babe, get it,_ in this sick little purr as he gropes himself underneath the camera.  You stick your tongue out at him and pull your collar down to expose one of your tits, and Seth gives a tortured groan in response. 

 _Oh, you slut!_ he hisses into his phone, _You fucking slut, I love you so much,_ and between your legs you hear, and feel, Magnus grunt, “Gross,” his snort hot against your skin.  You can’t help but giggle, silencing yourself with a demure hand over your mouth, and then Magnus locks onto your clit again, and you immediately forget yourself.

Ah, shit.  It’s nice.  Stretching your legs over his broad shoulders and rolling your hips against his mouth, pinching your bare nipple between your fingertips as you stretch out, your other hand in his hair, as your husband swears over you and loves the show.  He’s the same way he always is when you masturbate in front of him, which – for everything wrong about Seth, for all he’s terrible, vermin, rat-faced and entitled – you have to admit is on point: he worships you, and this has happened so naturally, like he’s been dreaming about it for decades.  Which he probably has been.  You believe Magnus is onto something when he observes that your husband is a cuckold, but not as much as what he’s onto with this particular suck he’s got here.  He should patent that shit.  If you could buy it bottled... well... you’d be broke.

Admit it.  If he took a moment to surface, Magnus would have you eating out of his hand right now, totally fucking gooey.  But just like the groupies say, he seems devoted to drowning himself in your pussy, his nails curled into your buttocks and those big strong hands... mm.  You look Seth in the eyes, or as close as you can, directly into the camera spot, and imagine this man on top of you instead, and his weight, and his breath on your neck, and his _nice_ cock inside you, rolling your hips up to it and meeting his lips instead.  Seth swears again, getting frantic with the zip sound of his rings grazing the fine fabric of his fly.  And then he freezes, his face going blank.

 _Fuck,_ he says, louder this time, _fuck.  Uh..._ and he fiddles with his phone, jerking his image around on the screen above you.  _Sorry, uh – I got a message_ – but before he can finish, you hear someone knocking on the door of the bathroom, muffled voices, and Seth calls back, _Yeah, okay!_

 _Sorry, babe, I’m so sorry, fuck,_ he says to you, softer, putting himself away again stiffly, _I’ll be right back, you know how it is babe, I’m needed.  I’ll make it up to you._   Yeah, right.  So what, he’s going to go back to his meeting with a hard on?  You’d like to see that.  And then, _okay, I’m coming!_ Seth yells, the video cutting off to black as he hangs up, and hey, what a coincidence.  So are you.

Magnus hasn’t come up except to breathe or chuckle at Seth, barely a second of panted breath, and the moment you’re alone again you can feel yourself tipping over the edge.  You let yourself moan for him, and Magnus’ grip tightens, and he locks on one thing, one motion, one pull of his lips and rub with the end of his tongue like he knows exactly what’s happening.  You can feel him groan all through your pelvis, and then you don’t care, because you come, fucking your hips against him and gasping for your life like you’re possessed.

Magnus holds on tight to you, pulling back slowly through his motions again, broad licks with hot breaths between them and fighting to still your jerking hips.  And you lie there, flushed and thwarted, your legs slung over his shoulders as he looks up at you between panting breaths, his hair mussed over his brow and his face red, and then you hear the beep.

At first you both ignore it.  Like you couldn’t possibly have heard it.  You look at the remote beside you curiously, but it’s only the television remote.  But the beep sounds again, and this time Magnus stiffens beneath you.

“Is that...” he hazards in a whisper, as if breaking the quiet between you is blasphemous in this moment, and you peer down at him with bare confusion on your face.  Like, it is, you know, and he clearly does too because he grabs the collar in horror.  But you didn’t press anything.  You don’t even know where the remote is— _OH._

It’s down the side of the couch.

Where your hips have just been bucking on the couch cushion.

Oh.

You look down at Magnus as the fourth beep sounds, and he gazes up at you with total, lamb-to-slaughter terror, whispering, “ _Why?_ ” to you as if you could have done anything about it.  You try to show him mercy in your gaze, try to soften it, but there’s nothing you could say to make this better.  Instead you just lift your legs off him, because, like, well.  No need to double the agony around here.

When the final warning sounds, it’s not the single clear beep, but rather a shrill series of beeps in rapid succession, followed by a sound like a battery-powered camera shutter or a gas canister, and then Magnus folds on cue, looking ill as it punches him and then slumping down at your feet.  You guess you haven’t been close enough to hear it before, and lower your heels gently to one side of his body, feeling only a little bit guilty.  But this time, Magnus does not get up again.

A second passes.  Two.  He’s still on the floor, crumpled over with his legs curled under him.  Cautiously, you prod him with your heel.  No reaction.  When you turn him over with his broad shoulder, he doesn’t even stir.

You’ve killed your husband’s boyfriend.

Oh, fuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you believe this is a year old?

**Author's Note:**

> the sequel no one asked for.
> 
> Credit to doodnoice for the inspiration for [Seth and Amber's first encounter](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5758768/chapters/13269268).


End file.
